Where I'll Be
by HungryBear
Summary: Thalia just wanted to be by herself for a while. At least, that was what she told herself two years ago when she moved into her parent's vacation home, a remote cabin in the Adirondacks. Working from home, communicating with her family via Skype and text messaging suited her just fine. Then that man broke in. The one from the news reports in New York City. (T for future chapters)
1. Chapter 1- In A Cabin In The Woods

I knew something was going to happen from the moment I woke up that day. There was a nameless tension in the air, almost like the earth itself was holding its breath. I think it was the weather- if I lived closer to the Midwest I might say it was tornado weather, dark and foreboding.

I woke up before my alarm, blinking in the hazy darkness of an overcast dawn. Rain was tapping irregularly on the windows while the wind howled outside. I could hear the house creak, bracing against the weather.

Rolling over in my queen-sized bed I squinted through bleary eyes at the glowing red numbers on my clock. It was almost six o' clock, but it looked like the middle of the night.

I decided to try going back to sleep, and rolled back to my original position. My cheek landed in a cold puddle of my own drool.

I sat up, scowling back down at the pillow, and flipped it over before lying back down. But that had been enough to nudge me out of sleep, probably for good. I squirmed, turned over, squirmed some more, trying to find the comfortable position I'd been in when I woke up. The blankets were bunched up in odd ways, making it hard to settle down. Just when I would get the blankets sorted and get comfortable, something would itch. I groaned.

Finally I fought the blankets and my pillow and myself into submission, curling myself into a ball in the middle of the bed, wrapping the blankets snugly around myself, nuzzling against the pillow.

I had to go to the bathroom.

"Ugh, I give up!" I growled to no one.

Kicking off the blankets angrily, I rolled out of bed, grumbling when my bare feet hit the cold wood floor. The old boards creaked and groaned while I walked out of my bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom.

Had anyone else lived in the house, I would almost certainly have woken them with the creaking floors and the slamming bathroom door. Good thing I was alone.

The house was actually my parents', it was our vacation cabin. It was a moderately-sized log cabin, set up in the Adirondack Mountains. Every summer I could remember we'd migrated up there from New York suburbia, then spent two and a half months hiking, fishing, hunting, barbequing, and swimming in Lake George. My parents had offered it to me when I'd finished college. It was meant to be a 'just for a while' thing, or so I had insisted. That was two years ago.

Naturally my family still came up in the summer, so I wasn't alone all of the time. But I enjoyed my solitude through the rest of the year. Growing up with two younger sisters, you learn to cherish privacy and silence. I wasn't lonely at all- my Mom called me every Sunday afternoon, and I was always in contact with anyone through texting. No fuss, no one to disturb me, just how I liked it.

While washing my hands, I contemplated the weather. It was early fall, so a dismal, rainy day wasn't exactly a shock. The wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes, slapping wet leaves against the glass. It would be dark at six in the morning this time of year anyway, but the clouds made it even darker.

Walking down the hall towards my bedroom I finally decided it would be better to just get up and do something. I wasn't going back to sleep now, and the time I would spend trying to could be better spent on something else. So I switched on the light, shocking my sleepy eyes, and got dressed.

I stuck a frozen waffle in the toaster and started up the coffee maker before switching on the TV. The news came on by default, with the anchor going on in a nearly monotone voice about the recent chaos in New York City. Something about helicarriers crashing, and a side note about some massive leak of confidential files, I think. I didn't pay much attention. The city always had something crazy going on, or at least it seemed that way to me.

Of course when you live in such a quiet area, any upheaval probably seems worse than it is. _Maybe all this superhero stuff is second-nature to people living in the city,_ I pondered while I waited for the coffee to be ready. Bored of the video of Captain America and the metal-armed soldier battling it out in the streets, I switched the channel to a different station.

After breakfast I settled onto the couch, my laptop and drawing tablet resting on a tv-dinner table in front of me. I switched to Netflix and queued up my latest multi-season obsession. I frowned when I noticed I had only a couple of episodes left before I was finished.

I'd been working as a freelance illustrator since finishing college, and was in the process of dealing with some particularly irritating clients, a sugary-sweet husband and wife pair. I was supposed to be designing a mascot for their little bakery in Houston.

"Make it cute." Had been their frustratingly vague stipulation. After three weeks of sending them concepts, they kept changing what they wanted. They wanted it to be a little boy, then a little girl, then an animal, then an anthropomorphic animal, first a chipmunk, then a llama, now a chameleon, then finally they seemed to settle on a puppy. I'd drawn up six different ideas for anthro puppies, three boys and three girls, and was waiting for their response.

While the TV played an energetic theme song, I checked my email. They'd responded. I took a deep breath and opened it.

"We absolutely LOVE number three! Do another one like that, but with MORE!"

I sighed and covered my face with one hand. "More WHAT?" I moaned. Dealing with these two was going to give me an ulcer, I was sure. I made a silent vow never to accept work without at least four clear statements from the client of what they wanted me to do. 'Make it cute'. What was wrong with me?

A few deep breaths and I was prepared to respond to their email somewhat rationally.

"I would love to, but what exactly do you mean by 'more'?"

Maybe that would get them to actually tell me what the frickle-frack they wanted.

In the meantime I decided to simply sit and sketch to unwind. It'd been a while since I'd updated my art blog. Maybe I could open for commissions again- with only one client and the job dragging on forever I wasn't nearly busy enough art-wise. My parents only charged a minimum in rent, but I still had to pay for my own groceries and shopping.

I opened my drawing program and got to work.

The day passed lazily, as my days typically did. I drew and binge-watched TV shows on Netflix, updating my art accounts online and corresponding with various online friends all the while. I had a quick, light lunch somewhere in there, too.

Somewhere around seven, my stomach growled loudly.

I leaned away from my computer screen and stretched. My back and neck were stiff, my legs complaining from being folded beneath me since lunch. My feet were both asleep. I stretched out my legs to allow feeling to return to them, resting my head on the back of the couch while I waited.

The wind was still howling, rain still falling. The only difference in the weather was the fact that the rain was heavier now. The day had been dark and bleak. An unexplained depression settled over my chest.

Staring up into the exposed rafters in the ceiling I sighed deeply. I was no stranger to that sudden, unexplained sadness at the end of a lazy day. The kind that sits sourly in the pit of your belly, makes you chilly and makes you wonder what went wrong that day. That feeling that you missed something you should have done, that feeling that you wasted your day.

With the feeling back in my legs and feet I stood up. I was about to head into the kitchen but the sad feeling in my belly needed to be addressed first.

As I usually did when that sour feeling started, I walked through all the rooms on the bottom floor of the house- the kitchen, the dining room, the family room, and switched on the lights. Finally I switched on the light in the living room. That light hung from the ceiling from one of the exposed support beams above the couch and coffee table, and was a bare candle-flame shaped bulb surrounded by glass panels etched with flowery designs. With that light on, small white reflections danced over the log walls and natural-wood floors.

_Look Thalia, look at all the little fairies!_ I could practically hear my mother's voice from so long ago, holding me, only a few years old, pointing at the tiny reflections on almost every surface.

Reassured, feeling a little more cheerful, I smiled to myself before turning and walking to the refrigerator. When I opened it, however, that feeling of reassurance disappeared almost immediately.

Inside was only a half jar of mayonnaise, a mostly-empty gallon of milk, one slice of cheese, and a pickle left over from my parents' last visit. I vaguely remembered noticing my dwindling food supply this morning when I'd finished the waffles, and at lunch when I'd used the cheese and the rest of the sliced chicken for a sandwich...on the last roll.

"Ugh...dang it." I groaned, swinging the door shut. Checking the cabinets I found nothing that appealed to me for dinner, although I discovered a box of pop tarts I hadn't known I'd had, probably left over from the last time my sisters were here. I considered having a couple of those for dinner, but the idea made me a bit nauseous, so I closed the cabinet with a wince.

Wistfully I thought of my father's homemade chili. He made it every summer when they came up. It wasn't exactly the greatest dish for a Northeastern summer night, but we all enjoyed it just the same. My stomach growled at the thought of it.

With a sigh I glanced once more in my pitiful fridge, freezer, and pantry. There was nothing for a decent supper, outside of cereal, possibly a scrambled egg, and some stale crackers. I would have to go shopping.

The little grocery store roughly ten minutes from my house wasn't fancy, and so I didn't bother changing out of my ripped, baggy jeans and cozy dark blue college sweatshirt. I twisted my wavy, dark hair into a hurried, messy bun and set out.

I was most definitely craving chili at this point. Wandering the aisles I couldn't find anything smaller than a 'family-sized' can. I grabbed it anyway, figuring I could always freeze the excess.

Have you ever heard that you shouldn't go grocery shopping when you're hungry? Well, it's good advice. By the time I decided I was done my hand basket was fit to burst, mostly with snack food and the kind of pre-made meals my mother would scowl at.

I was walking to the checkout when a familiar face came around the corner- my father's longtime friend, who also happened to be the neighbor closest to my house. He seemed to consider checking up on me his personal duty, which I didn't always mind.

He was a small man in his seventies, with perpetually squinting eyes and a fishing hat he wore everywhere but out on the lake. After nearly running into me, he let loose a beaming grin.

"Little Thalia! Hello dear! How are yeh?" He chirped in his raspy ex-smoker's voice.

His smile was the kind you couldn't help but return. "Hi Mister Garibaldi, I'm doing fine, how are you?"

He chuckled as if I'd made a joke and then seemed to suddenly notice my load. "Havin' some comp'ny?"

I felt my cheeks redden, and glanced down at the basket I was struggling to carry. "Uh, no, just...stocking up. Haven't shopped in a while."

He gave me another chuckle and nodded, the brim of his hat wobbling. "Ah, I see. Thought mebbe a gentleman friend was payin' yeh a visit."

My cheeks reddened further but I forced a nonchalant smile, shifting my basket to my other hand. "Oh, no. Not this weekend."

Mr. Garibaldi suddenly fixed me with an uncharacteristically serious stare. "Too bad. You bein' alone up there all of the time," he shook his head sadly, "it's not good for you. Does things to yer mind."

I frowned. "I'm okay. I can take care of myself, no problem."

"I don't doubt that," he commented, "but that don't mean yeh have to live like a hermit to prove it." There was a brief silence between us, then suddenly he was cheerful again, smiling and bobbing his head like a happy cockatoo. "I'll tell yer Dad I saw yeh down here!" And he disappeared into the frozen foods section.

I frowned after him. What was he talking about? Was he really that worried about my living alone? Why? He'd never really said anything about it before. Even my parents only mentioned it now and then.

I wasn't trying to prove anything by living alone, I was just...comfortable that way. I'd never been a social butterfly, and the idea of someone else coming in...it made me uncomfortable.

Standing in the checkout line I remembered that sinking, unexplained sadness from earlier that night. Maybe I was lonely? Could you be lonely without knowing? Maybe I should get a pet.

After taking my bags and thanking the cashier, I nodded to myself on the way to the car. That was it, I needed a pet. I could head down to the shelter and find a nice, peaceful cat, or maybe an older dog that would be content to laze around the house and wouldn't need too many walks.

That would make me feel much better.

I was sure of it.

I wasn't the kind to be frightened easily. I'd grown up helping my dad chop wood, hunt, fish, whatever. I knew how to shoot several kinds of guns and could defend myself pretty well if someone were to attack me. The idea of burglars in the cabin didn't make me more than a bit tense. But there _was_ something I was awfully afraid of.

Sitting at the dining room table, reading the comics in the newspaper, slowly nursing a bowl of the canned chili I'd bought, that fear confronted me.

With a 'thunk', a fat, long-legged wolf spider dropped onto the newspaper.

The pair of us just stared at one another for a long moment while my brain registered what I was seeing. Then I jumped up, squealing, my spoon landing back in the bowl with a loud 'clank'.

The spider ran the opposite direction, dropping from the table and scrambling for the heating vent by the floor. I looked around for something to smash it with, because I sure as heck wasn't stepping on that thing with my stocking feet.

I found a heavy rain boot by the back door and ran back to vanquish my enemy, but by the time I got back it was gone, lost somewhere in the vents. Somewhere in my house.

I sat back on the chair by the table, looking nervously up at the ceiling, feet pulled up off the floor, shaking, whimpering at the thought of the spider nearly dropping right on my head. I spent the rest of the evening jumping at every tickle on my skin.

The incident with the spider set me on edge, and the foreboding atmosphere of the wet, windy day and night didn't help. I kept all of the lights in the house on from the time I got back from the grocery store to the time I was ready for bed.

Thunder was growling in the distance while I changed into my pajamas and went about my before-bed routine, brushing my teeth, washing my face, going to the bathroom, all that. Lighting flashed when I climbed into the blankets, and thunder growled a little more loudly. Somewhere a dog barked.

Turning off my bedside light- after checking the rafters above me for any more unwelcome visitors, I snuggled into the warm comforter. Tomorrow, I'd decided, I would start browsing local shelters online to see what kinds of animals they might have. A pet of some sort would be just the thing, something to snuggle in bed with me and make me less lonely.

But I wasn't lonely, I reminded myself sternly. I was just tired of being by myself.

With a last yawn, I closed my eyes and drifted slowly to sleep.

Something woke me suddenly. It was still very dark. The weather had calmed, and the night was silent. A glance at the clock told me it was just past midnight. My heart was pounding, my body rigid. What had woken me? A bad dream? Maybe.

I shivered, pulled the blankets tighter around my body, and tried to settle down so I could go back to sleep.

Something downstairs fell over with a loud slam. My heart nearly stopped.

I opened my eyes, straining to see in the darkness. All I could hear was my own blood rushing in my ears. My hands tingled, by body trembled.

Maybe I'd left a window open, and the wind knocked something over.

A quieter thump, and something that sounded like a mumbled curse.

Someone was in my house.

My heart was racing now.

My first thought was of the hunting rifles and two handguns in the gun safe. But naturally the safe was downstairs, hidden in a hall closet behind some winter jackets. I hadn't thought before of how foolish that placing was. I should have brought one of the smaller guns upstairs.

Next I thought maybe I could stay upstairs, stay quiet, and the intruder would leave.

No. The police. I had to call the police.

I kicked off my blankets and looked to my nightstand where I normally plugged in my phone overnight. It was gone. I remembered suddenly that I'd last used it on the couch downstairs while watching TV. I'd browsed Pinterest until the battery ran low. I must have left it.

There was a phone in the office, the room a few doors down from my bedroom, but I'd have to walk past the stairs to get there, and the floors would creak the whole way. If I just sat in bed the intruder would probably find me eventually. If I ran for the office he would find me for sure, but I could call for help. Was it worth the risk?

My bedroom door was open, and I could see the kitchen light come on. What kind of burglar turned on the lights? Maybe he was unprepared? Inexperienced? Maybe knowing someone was at home would scare him away.

Anything was better than this tension. I flung the blankets away and slowly put my feet on the floor.

I managed to get out of my bedroom without making much noise, and in the hall if I hugged the wall and went slow the floors didn't creak much. As I neared the stairs I strained my ears to try and hear where the intruder was.

I could hear things moving in the kitchen, and frowned. What would a robber want in the kitchen? Maybe he was just some crazy homeless person looking for food?

Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching the stairs and my heart dropped. I moved forward some more, hoping to reach the office before he started up the stairs. It took both an eternity and a heartbeat for me to be directly across from the stairs. I could see the landing at the bottom. A shadow fell across the floor.

I tried to creep, but a combination of high-voltage fear and the adrenaline pumping through my body made my movements clumsy and too fast. I stumbled and the floor creaked beneath my weight. One of the stairs squeaked under the intruder's weight and I moved more quickly towards the office. I was almost at the door when something creaked behind me.

I turned reflexively to see what it was.

I saw nothing.

I turned back to continue.

I saw the intruder.

He was a full head taller than me, built like a fighter, and he was standing right in front of the office door.

Too scared to scream, I turned and ran for the stairs. I took them two and three at a time, almost twisting my ankle but too high on fear to notice.

I heard him coming down the stairs behind me and skidded on the landing in my socks, running for the hall closet. I slipped and stumbled to the skinny door and flung it open, shoving winter coats aside to reach the tall gunmetal-gray safe inside.

Before I could reach for the number pad to enter the code, something grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise it. The intruder yanked me away from the safe, spinning me around so I hit the wall on the other side of the hallway. When I turned to face him he had slammed the closet closed and was standing in front of it protectively.

He wasn't wearing a mask or anything, and I could see his face clearly, even in the dim light. He was nearly expressionless as he stared at me, one hand on the closet door.

We both stood in silence, the only sound in the hall my harsh, panicked breathing.

I opened my mouth to ask what he wanted, but then I noticed the way the kitchen light glinted from the fingers on the hand he held the door closed with, the metallic sheen on his forearm. The words died in my throat. I understood suddenly who this was.

He was the one from the news.

The Winter Soldier.

And he was in my house.


	2. Chapter 2- I Came Across A Fallen Tree

I'd like to be able to say I thought of something deep, or said something sassy, or did something heroic in that terrifying moment. But really, I was so afraid and certain I was going to be killed right then and there, that all that existed in my mind was a vague white noise and my own heart pounding.

He didn't make a move to grab or attack me, just stood in silence in the dimly lit hall, one hand on the closet door, staring right at my face.

My mouth was open again, and I was struggling to form any kind of words.

He held up his right hand in a 'take it easy' gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I closed my mouth and swallowed convulsively. "Okay." My voice was shaky and high, not good for intimidating burglars. I cleared my throat.

"I didn't know anyone was here. I...I thought this was a summer place." His voice was raspy, as if from disuse. "I'm just looking for somewhere to rest, and maybe some food. I don't want any trouble."

I nodded slowly. I must have looked like I was scared out of my mind. I guess I was.

"I'm not here to steal anything," he swallowed nervously, "and I don't want to hurt anyone."

I nodded again.

"You can't call the police."

Another nod. Was this even actually happening, or was this some weird dream? It all seemed so surreal. Here was a terrifying monster of a human, one that I'd watched on endless news broadcasts wherever I looked. I'd seen him smashing cars, firing machine guns, setting off bombs. He was here in my house telling me I couldn't call the police.

He didn't _look_ all that terrifying, though. He looked more like a lost, beaten dog hoping someone would throw him some scraps. He had bright blue eyes, and at the moment they were wide with...fear? Maybe. But why would he be afraid of me? If it was fear I saw in his eyes, it was surely fear of being caught.

"What are you doing here?" I asked when I found my voice again. It was a little less shaky than before. "You were in the city-"

"I had to run. I got away but I need to hide somewhere. They won't find me if I hide well enough."

My throat went dry. I had to swallow a few times to be able to speak again. "Who won't find you?"

He shook his head. "They won't find me."

_Okay maybe he's crazy. Great._ I was still leaning against the wall, not eager to move. I didn't want to startle him or something, make him come after me. "So you need somewhere to hide from...them?"

He was silent for a moment, looking at the ground between us, hand still on the closet door. "You could say that."

Suddenly a strange noise echoed into the hallway. A guttural, gurgling kind of sound.

He _had_ said he was hungry. I glanced at his stomach.

He looked embarrassed.

I couldn't even believe what I was about to offer. But this man looked more like a hungry stray who'd wandered to my door in a rainstorm than someone plotting a murder. But what did a murderer look like? It wasn't as if they wore a badge.

"I...I have some leftover dinner." I said tentatively. "If you want it."

His body seemed to relax a little, and he swallowed again, glancing at the kitchen. "That...would be good."

"Do you like chili?" _What am I doing?_

"I'll eat anything."

"Okay."

Slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, I straightened, keeping my back to the wall, and inched along the wall towards the kitchen. Once at the end of the hall I spun quickly into the kitchen so as not to allow him a clear shot of my back. I rushed to the fridge so he couldn't come in behind me without my noticing.

For once, I was grateful for the house's old floors. I could hear him wherever he went, even while I took out the leftover chili and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. I heard him shift his weight a little in the hall by the closet, then I could hear him slowly walking into the kitchen.

He appeared at the corner, standing tentatively in the shadows before slowly walking to the table, his eyes darting all around the room as if he was memorizing the house's floor plan. He probably was. He _was_ a soldier, presumably.

I put the bowl in the microwave and set it to heat for a couple of minutes. I'd had a lot left over and I poured it all out for him. He was a big guy, he probably needed a lot of food. How long had it been since he'd eaten?

I stood beside the microwave, turned so I could see the chili and also keep an eye on him in my peripheral vision.

He stood by the dining room entryway, looking nervous.

"You can go sit." I told him. He did.

We didn't speak. What did one say to a burglar they were now treating to leftovers?

The microwave beeped and I took the bowl out, carried it gingerly to the dining room table and set it in front of him.

"Thanks." He mumbled awkwardly.

"You want anything to drink?" What_ did I just say?_

He cleared his throat. "You really don't have to-"

"I have water, uh, some milk I think, and probably some orange juice...I don't think it's expired yet...and a few cans of soda."

"...Water, would be nice, please."

Standing at the kitchen sink, filling a glass with cold water from the tap, I stared at a framed photo of my parents. I thought about calling them, telling them what was going on, asking them what to do. But he'd said not to call the police, and that was the first thing my parents would do. After all, what could I tell them that _wouldn't _sound insane? _Hey Mom, Dad. Oh, I'm fine, nothing special going on. Except for that guy who broke in last night. Nah, he said not to call the police so I didn't. He's probably not a murderer. He likes chili._

The water overflowed from the glass onto my hand, snapping me out of my thoughts. I poured a little out of the glass so it wouldn't be so full, plunked a couple ice cubes in, and quickly dried my hand.

When I walked back into the dining room my visitor's bowl was already half empty. I placed the glass beside him and he mumbled another thanks. I was still sort of in shock of the weirdness of my situation. I sat down in the chair across from him.

He had sort of long, disheveled brown hair. It was loose, kind of greasy, with bits of grass stuck in it. There was dirt smudged on his face, streaked with cleaner patches and lines where he must have been sweating at some point. He did look like someone who'd traveled through the woods.

I ran a hand through my own hair, only just then noticing how messy it was. The adrenaline from before was, astoundingly, beginning to wear off, and I was feeling tired. The ankle I'd sort of half-twisted on my way down the stairs was getting sore, and I was finally feeling the chill of the house. There was a wood stove in the living room that I would normally have lit, but I'd forgotten to bring in more firewood and all that was left in the metal basket was a couple of thin pieces of kindling. I crossed my arms to fend off the cold.

I looked back at him, watching him eat.

He would eat quickly, hunched over the table a bit like he was protecting his food. Then he would hesitate, straighten up, and seem to make more of an effort to slow down.

I tilted my head to one side curiously, wondering once again how long it had been since he'd eaten last.

"So...what's your plan? I mean, overall." I asked eventually.

He paused and looked up at me questioningly.

"Are you...heading somewhere?" I asked, "Or is this-" I gestured vaguely to imply the entire house, "the extent of things?"

He frowned and took a few gulps of water before answering. "I was looking for somewhere to ...rest, to regroup." He stirred what was left of the chili, staring at it as if he was waiting for answers to surface. "I still need a real...plan."

"And you have nowhere to go? No friends?"

He looked up at me so suddenly and so sharply that I jumped. He just stared at me for the space of a few heartbeats, then closed his eyes, shook his head, and then went back to eating.

Willing my heartbeat to calm down, I waited while he ate a little more. Soon the bowl was empty, and he set the spoon down.

"I...lost my memory. I don't remember much of anything. Nothing that happened before..." He gestured with his right hand at his left arm, metal and shining and resting on the table. "I want to remember. But I don't know how to make that happen, so it seems like I just have to wait. I was looking for a place to do that when I...got here."

I nodded slowly, considering his explanation. "Okay...what happened to your memories? How did you lose them?"

He looked down at the table. "It's a long story."

It was clear he didn't want to talk about that, and I didn't want to upset the fairly frightening man in my house, so I switched subjects. "How did you get in here?"

That question clearly made him uncomfortable also, but in a different way.

"Back door." He said, squirming a bit in his chair. "I broke one of the panes in the window in the door, then just reached in and unlocked it." He gave me another of his regretful looks. "Sorry about the window."

I shrugged, rubbing one eye. I really was tired now. "That's...well it's not really okay but don't worry about it. I'll get my Dad to fix it next time he's up. I guess. I dunno."

He nodded slowly, looking down at the bowl in front of him. "Thank you for the food."

"Don't mention it."

"I can wash the dishes, before I go."

"Don't worry about them, I've got a dishwasher. Thanks though."

He looked puzzled for a moment, but then nodded and looked back at the bowl in front of him.

We sat in silence for a few moments, the clock on the wall ticking loudly, crickets chirping outside.

Watching him, thinking about what he'd told me and remembering his 'lost puppy' bearing from earlier, I made another unexplained and totally ill-advised decision.

"There are a few empty beds upstairs. Only one has sheets on it though, besides mine. You can sleep in that one. The other one I mean. There's a shower upstairs too, if you want to use it."

He looked up at me, looking shocked. If I hadn't been so tired I would have been shocked at myself, too.

"You...mean that?" He asked, frowning.

I felt heat rising to my cheeks. It had been a dumb thing to say, after all. "If you want to leave that's fine too. I just figured it's late and you seem tired..."

"If you're okay with it...I wouldn't...I wouldn't mind cleaning up a little."

I nodded and stood up, yawning. "You can put those in the sink in the kitchen. I'll put 'em in the dishwasher in the morning."

He nodded and stood as well, collecting his bowl and glass.

While he put the dishes in the kitchen I went upstairs and into the bathroom.

When you live alone, you tend not to worry about what places like your bathroom look like. After all, if you're like me and don't get visitors, you're the only one who's going to see it, so who really cared?

I stood in the doorway and looked around quickly, searching for anything that might need to be hidden right away. The room was messy but passable, and nothing personal was lying out. The toilet paper was low so I stuck a new roll on the back of the toilet tank in case he needed it, and ran some water from the sink on my hand to try and wipe off the mirror a little.

He came up the stairs and stood in the hall outside the bathroom quietly.

"Towels are there, use any of them, I don't mind. And everything else is in the cabinet here. Sorry I only have flowery smelling soap." I winced at the bottles of shower gel on the shelf in the shower itself.

He looked almost like he might smile, and shrugged. I noticed he only included his 'real' arm in the action. "I'll manage."

I stepped out of the room so he could get in, and then stopped outside the doorway. "I have some of my Dad's clothes here, so you can change into something clean." I studied his clothes. They were simple and somewhat ill-fitting, like they didn't even belong to him, dusty and smeared with dirt and what I hoped was mud.

He nodded, looking awkward. "Uh, that would be nice...but you don't have to..."

"I'll see what I can find. Go ahead and shower. Holler if you need anything." I said, offering him a quick smile I hoped was reassuring.

As a rule, I never went into the storage room at night. So I had to settle for rummaging through the closet on my Dad's side of my parents' room. Most of what I found was light, summery things, but I did find his old bathrobe, a t-shirt, and some comfortable-looking sweatpants.

I frowned at my finds, spread out on my parents' bed. Fortunately, my guest was roughly the same height as my Dad. But my Dad was a fairly skinny guy, and this guy was built like a tank. But it was the best I could do on short notice.

I stood in silence in the room, thinking about what I should do next. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Should I bring the clothes in to him? And what about underwear? I blushed a bit at that thought. I had no idea if my Dad kept any underwear here and had no desire to search for it. Besides, it was bad enough I was offering his clothes to a stranger without permission, I was sure he wouldn't appreciate _that_ level of hospitality.

I figured leaving the clothes in the hall would be enough. I folded them as neatly as I could, and left them carefully in front of the bathroom door. I straightened up and stared at the dark wood door, biting my lower lip. Should I knock? Let him know the clothes were there for him? I lifted a hand and moved to knock, then hesitated. I didn't want to creep him out.

_Worst case scenario: he puts on his own clothes and then finds these clothes out here when he comes out. He can just change._

I left the clothes where they were.

A glance at the clock on the wall let me know it was almost three in the morning. Sleepiness was dragging at me, clouding my thoughts.

I waited for a minute or so, but decided it was silly to wait for him to get out of the shower. He wasn't a child, he could find his room.

I hurried into the only guest room with a bed made. I pulled down the covers invitingly, and turned on the bedside lamp. I turned off the lights in the other rooms so it would be obvious which was meant for him, and carefully moved the clothes outside of the bathroom into the light so he wouldn't trip on them. Then I went back to my bedroom.

Once inside, I closed the door and stared at it, slowly absorbing what was most definitely the strangest situation I'd ever been in.

"What am I going to do?" I asked myself, sitting on the bed. It was crazy. I was crazy. Maybe I'd finally lost it and was having some kind of extreme hallucination. Earlier that morning I'd seen The Winter Solider fighting Captain America, and now he was sheepishly stumbling around my house, and using my shower. That couldn't be happening. But it was. Or was it?

I groaned and rubbed both eyes. It was dark in my room since I'd never thought to turn on any lights. I very much wanted to just go to sleep. My ankle was sore and I was shaky and so confused. Maybe I would wake up and he would be gone and everything would be back to normal.

I flopped down in my bed, pulling the sheets over me and sighing. I slowly felt myself relax into the blankets, listening to the white noise of the water running.

_I shouldn't be this relaxed with a stranger in the house,_ was my last coherent thought before I drifted back to sleep.

It was shocking how well I slept with someone like him in my house. But once I was asleep I didn't wake up again until my alarm went off at seven.

I stretched beneath the blankets, slapped the alarm clock to turn it off, and rolled over to go back to sleep. No, just rest my eyes. Yeah.

I was perfectly comfortable. The blankets were tucked perfectly, the bed just the right temperature, sunlight lighting the room but not too much to be annoying. I took a deep breath and sank into the sheets. I could even smell breakfast. This would be a great day.

I frowned.

Why did I smell breakfast?

I walked down the stairs, the smell of eggs and bacon growing steadily stronger. When I got into the kitchen, my visitor was standing in front of the stove.

He was still in the pajamas I'd hunted down for him. He had his hair tied back into a tiny ponytail, and was scrambling some eggs. When I walked into the kitchen he turned to glance briefly at me before turning back to the stove.

"Good morning." I said after a moment of silence.

"'Morning." He mumbled.

I watched him cooking for a moment before I walked over to the counter, near him but not too close, watching.

"I'm not poisoning it." He said, monotone.

"I didn't think so." I lied. "You didn't have to make breakfast."

"The least I could do. You can go sit down, it's almost ready."

This situation was getting weirder all of the time. Not sure what else to do, I turned and walked into the dining room, feeling a little lost.

Awkwardly I sat at the table, looking into the kitchen, listening to him in the kitchen. He didn't hum, or talk to himself, like most other people alone in the kitchen. When I'd watched him at the stove, the only expression on his face had been somewhere between thoughtfulness and total concentration.

_I've never seen someone concentrate so hard on eggs before_. Naturally I assumed he had been thinking about something else. I couldn't imagine what. I had no idea what he'd done before I'd seen him on the news, before he was 'The Winter Soldier'. Actually I had no idea what he'd done while he _was_ The Winter Soldier.

He walked into the dining room, breaking me out of my thoughts. He set a plate in front of me, and then sat across from me with his own.

"Thank you."

"Welcome." He didn't look at me.

We sat in silence, eating, not making eye contact.

I noticed he hadn't brought in anything to drink. I stood up, pushing my chair back. It scraped noisily on the floor.

He jumped, straightening, instantly holding his fork like a knife, his intense stare fixed right on my face. I froze.

"I'm...just getting a drink." I said as gently as I could.

He swallowed and seemed to make a great effort to relax his grip on the fork. "Right. Sorry."

I was about to go into the kitchen, but I stopped, and sat back in my chair, scooting it up to the table again.

"Look. We need to get something straight here."

He looked up at me, frowning. He still looked tense, ready to fight.

I sighed, leaning on the table. "I'm terrified of you. You are really scary, if you didn't know."

He looked down at his food.

"I don't know who you are, or what you're doing here. I have no way of knowing if you're telling me the truth or if you're planning something. I know you're dangerous, and I'm not totally sure you won't hurt me. And if you do people will say I deserved it because I let you stay in my house."

He didn't say anything, just stared at his plate.

"For all I know, whoever's chasing you, or working with you, or whatever, could be waiting outside the house right now. Or you could have put something in my food. I just don't know."

He pushed the eggs around his plate with his fork, like a little kid being scolded.

"But...I really want to believe you."

He glanced up at me.

I sighed. "I'm probably crazy, but I really think you're telling me the truth. So, if you're really serious about not hurting anyone and just lying low, you can stay here."

"Seriously?" He looked up, raising his eyebrows.

I couldn't help but smile at his shocked expression, but I pretended to scratch my nose so I could hide my smile with my hand. "Yeah." I cleared my throat, recovering. "But, I'm not getting involved in any crazy superhero drama. Someone comes looking for you, it's on your head, okay? I'm not covering for you."

He actually looked like he might smile. His shoulders relaxed, and he loosened from that straight posture he'd had. "They won't find me."

I nodded. "You told me. Now the next thing I want to mention."

He met my gaze evenly. He really did have nice eyes.

I cleared my throat. "Do you have a name? Like a real name?"

He blinked, then frowned. He swallowed and looked back at his food. "Um...yeah. I guess."

There was a long silence.

"Mind sharing it?"

"It's...Bucky. Bucky...Barnes."

I blinked. It was hardly an intimidating name for someone like him. No wonder people preferred to call him The Winter Soldier.

"You?" He asked, taking a bite of bacon.

"Oh, uh, Thalia. Thalia Warren."

He nodded, then straightened up and held out his right hand. "Nice to meet you, Thalia Warren. Thank you for letting me stay here."

I shook his hand, smiling. "You're welcome, Bucky Barnes. Would you like something to drink?"

He looked away, looking sheepish. "Oh, yeah. I was going to make coffee, but...I, uh, couldn't figure out your coffee maker."

"That's okay, I'll get it."

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who's followed this story so far. Sorry it took so long to get this out, but I had a couple other projects I was working on. I'm still trying to work out how to write Bucky, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. See you in the next chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3- It's Something Unpredictable

"Okay, you'd better pay attention because this is the last time I'm showing you this."

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned against the counter at a respectful distance, nodding for me to continue.

I lifted a glass of water, turning to face him and holding up the glass so I was sure he saw it. "You take this glass of water..."

He raised an eyebrow.

Still looking at him, I lifted the lid of the coffee maker. "And you pour it in here. Not the glass, just the water."

"Mm."

"Then you put one of these-" I held up the small plastic cup of coffee, "in this part." I placed it in the holder.

"Mm-hmm."

I clicked the cover closed, still staring at him.

He was watching me so intensely. He always looked at things intensely, like he was memorizing every moment. But his posture was at odds with his gaze. He seemed relaxed, leaning with his hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed...was that almost a smile?

"Now c'mere, I wanna make sure you can handle this part, because it gets tricky."

There was a brief pause, then he slid out of his stance, slow and measured, and approached me, standing beside me and facing the coffee maker.

I pointed at the 'brew' button, flashing blue brightly in the slight shade of both of our shadows. "You have to press this button."

He looked at me, that ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. "You sure I'm ready for this? It's a big step."

"I have faith in you."

Shaking his head, he looked back at the machine and, very deliberately, pressed the button.

"You did it!" I cried. "Good job Bucky! What a good boy you are! Do you want a snack?"

He glanced my way without fully turning his head. That vague almost-smile returned. "Don't push it."

I smiled, resting the mug below the coffee maker's spout. "Just make sure you always have a mug under here. Trust me. I forgot once. It's really hard to get coffee out of...like, everything."

"Got it."

I crossed my arms and turned to face him. "So you think you can manage?"

He looked back at me, raising one eyebrow. "I think I can figure it out."

"Good. Then you can make your own."

He raised both eyebrows this time.

The coffee machine growled and then a thin stream of coffee began pouring into the mug. I smiled up at him -_gosh he's so tall_, thoroughly enjoying the look of surprise on his face.

He'd been at my house for almost a week now, and things had been surprisingly normal. At first he'd seemed to be trying very hard to be polite and non-threatening, stiff and tense all of the time. Over time he'd loosened up a bit, and we'd started having some actual conversations. Now we were actually somewhat comfortable together.

I stood in the doorway to the dining room, sipping my coffee and watching him in the kitchen making his own.

I liked to think we were comfortable together, but sometimes I wondered if he really was relaxed at all. His movements tended to be hesitant, tense, as if he was expecting some sort of rebuke or attack.

He turned to look at me suddenly. He'd probably known I was there, not at the table, the entire time.

"Look, I did it." He said, and for a second his mouth twitched into a smirk.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and nodded. "Good job."

When he turned away I wandered into the dining room, sinking into a chair. Breakfast sat on the table, two plates, each sporting waffles and bacon.

I wasn't very hungry despite the food in front of me. The clients I was supposed to be designing a mascot for hadn't gotten back to me, and I was getting anxious. I hadn't been getting much work besides them, and this job was taking forever. I wished they could just get on with things so I could get paid and move on to someone else. Hopefully someone sane.

I poked at my waffles, cut off a bite and chewed it thoughtfully, listening to Bucky in the kitchen. He was so quiet. Listening to him was actually an effort. He never hummed or talked to himself, never rattled silverware or clanked dishes together. Despite the hesitance in his motions, those same motions never seemed aimless. He always moved with a purpose.

He stepped into the room carrying his coffee, carefully set it on the table, and sat down in his chair to eat.

People might wonder how I could be casually eating breakfast with a deadly assassin. It was simple, actually. He didn't act mean or threatening, never seemed violent or angry, had manners somewhat...I wondered sometimes if this really was the same man I'd thought.

After trying to eat as much as I could, mind still on the job that I hadn't been able to finish, I decided to try and doodle to clear my head. Sometimes just sketching could calm me down. Plus, I hadn't done any drawing since Bucky had shown up. That was way too long.

I stood, careful not to move too suddenly and surprise Bucky. He glanced at me when I stood but otherwise didn't seem concerned. He was looking with vague interest at a newspaper from a few days ago.

One of my many sketchbooks was resting on the small corner table in the dining room. I grabbed it and a pencil and returned to the table, flipping the spiral-bound book open and laying it on the table beside my plate. I might not have had any paying projects to work on, but that didn't mean I couldn't still draw.

I could feel Bucky's gaze on me when I sat down.

I looked up at him. He was sitting up very straight, staring at my sketchbook, not me, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched.

"What?"

He didn't respond at first, then my words seemed to finally reach him several heartbeats later. "What?" He asked quickly, looking back up at my face. He looked almost afraid, like I'd said something important that couldn't possibly be repeated and he'd forgotten to listen.

"What's the matter? You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." He mumbled. He looked at his plate, halfheartedly spearing a piece of waffle on his fork. He was holding the utensil way too tightly.

"What was that?"

He spoke more to his plate than to me. "Just...I think I used to know someone who could draw. A long time ago."

I glanced at my book, frowning. I wasn't sure if I should be glad that his memory seemed to be coming back, or concerned that remembering that small detail had disturbed him so visibly.

A couple of days after he'd arrived, I'd had some music on in the kitchen while I cleaned up from lunch. He'd come into the room for a glass of water, paused, and commented mostly to himself that he used to like dancing. I'd asked, half joking, if he wanted to dance. He'd quietly disappeared back into the living room.

There had been a couple of other times where he'd remembered something pretty random about himself. A food he used to like, or a line from a song he couldn't remember any more of. But this was the first time he'd remembered something about someone other than himself, and I felt like that was a big step forwards.

_Should I push it? Try to get him to remember more?_

He was eating much more slowly, staring at the newspaper on the table but no longer seeming to read it. He'd leaned forward again, arms pulled in close to his body, like he was closing in on himself.

I decided to leave it, and the two of us sat in silence for a while.

When I finally gave up on trying to make myself eat, I set my fork down on my plate, crossed my arms and rested my elbows on the table.

"I have to do some stuff outside today. Do you want to help?"

He seemed surprised that I asked. "You really want my help?"

"Of course I do...you're eating me out of house and home, you might as well earn your keep."

For a moment Bucky looked startled, probably thinking I was serious. But when I smiled he relaxed, almost allowing himself to smile back.

I'd given up on expecting a real smile from him. The closest he came was a vague smirk, or a subtle lightening of his otherwise severe expression. Clearly whatever he'd gone through in the past was still very much with him. The idea of his being so messed up that he couldn't even smile hurt me more than almost anything else I could have imagined.

I kept smiling to hide my thoughts from his sharp eyes. "We need to get some more firewood. It's supposed to get really cold this weekend and I don't want to have to go out there in freezing temperatures if I can help it."

He nodded, seeming to consider the idea.

"There's a couple of old branches close to the house that fell during a storm this summer. I thought we could chop those up. Of course I have a lot of wood already cut but I like to start the winter with as much as possible, just in case." I nodded to the living room. "I need more inside, too."

He grunted softly.

Bucky hadn't even gone outside in the five days he'd been here. He simply wandered about inside, reading, observing the world through the windows, or quietly watching me do things around the house. At first his constant observation had been a bit disconcerting, but he didn't mean anything by it. Most of the time he was lost in thought anyway so he wasn't really even seeing what his eyes found to rest on. I couldn't imagine what he was thinking about.

Having the TV on seemed to bother him. I wasn't sure if it was the noise or the content, but I kept it off either way. I felt strangely cut off, even though I rarely watched anything but Netflix anyway.

Phone resting on the table, I searched for a news website to see if anything interesting had happened. I expected there to be something about the major info leak I'd heard all about a few days before. There was nothing.

_Well, someone silenced that real quick. Good job CIA. Or whatever._

There was a brief paragraph under a dramatic, action-blurred photo of Captain America fighting...Bucky. According to the reporter, trying too hard to make the chaos seem exciting rather than terrifying, Captain America had gallantly defended New York from The Winter Soldier against all odds. There was no mention of what had happened to his enemy or where they thought he was now.

I looked up at Bucky. He'd finished eating and was bringing his dishes into the kitchen. As I had many times since he'd arrived, I tried to match this quiet, wounded-looking man with the vicious soldier in the photos. I just couldn't understand it.

I searched for more articles about the fighting in the city, but none of the others offered much more information. One _did_ vaguely suggest the soldier had disappeared, but otherwise that was it. Was anyone looking for him? Would I know?

"You done?" Bucky asked, holding out his right hand for my plate.

I handed it to him and he disappeared back into the kitchen.

I'd showed him how to use the dishwasher but he still seemed more comfortable washing dishes by hand. I didn't argue with him. He seemed to prefer things like that, that he could do himself. It seemed therapeutic for him to be busy with simple things. Something to keep his mind busy.

Nudging my phone aside, I leaned on the table. I wanted to help Bucky. I wanted him to feel better, to smile, to get past whatever had happened to him. But I wasn't a therapist, not even close. How long would it be before a memory would surface that he couldn't deal with? I'd heard of cases where soldiers returned from war had such severe flashbacks they attacked people or held their own family hostage.

I listened to Bucky washing dishes. What would I do if he attacked me, thinking I was some imagined enemy? I couldn't do much. I could fight back but if he really was The Winter Soldier, I was no match for him. I'd be dead before I could defend myself.

_And I'm going to put an ax in his hand_.

I reminded myself of my thoughts from that morning, when I'd been considering my plan for that day. I'd decided that physical activity, moving and really doing something, would be good for him. I wasn't sure but I had a good hunch that a lot of his time lost in thought was spent thinking about things that would only make him feel worse.

I got up from the table and headed for the stairs to go get dressed.

"Thalia?" Bucky called from the kitchen.

I stopped, surprised, and turned to walk into the kitchen instead. "Yeah?"

He was standing at the sink, quietly washing a mug, looking up at a collage frame of family photos hanging on the wall nearby. He gestured at a photo. "Is that you?"

I walked over to him to see what he was pointing at. I stopped beside him. "Which one?"

He pointed at an old photo of an eight-year-old me, sitting on a picnic table beside the lake, face and arms covered in watermelon, black seeds stuck to my cheeks. I was smiling like I'd never been happier in my life.

"Oh, yeah. That was a long time ago. I don't really remember it." That was a lie. "Well I do, actually, but not super well..."

He rinsed the mug, still looking at the picture. "What were you eating?"

"Watermelon...my sisters and I had a contest to see who could eat the most, and I won." I felt my cheeks warming. "It was after a big picnic. A few minutes after that, I threw up."

He let out a small snort, like a laugh.

I tried to look at his face to see if he was smiling, but he looked back at the sink before I could tell.

"I'm going to go get dressed. When you're ready we can head outside."

He grunted an acknowledgment.

I glanced one more time at the frame. In all of the pictures, I or my family were outside, laughing and smiling, having the time of our lives. Had Bucky been staring at them all this time? There were plenty more family photos all over the house, but this was the first time he'd ever mentioned any of them. Maybe that meant something?

Glancing at Bucky one more time, I turned and went upstairs.

The day was mild, almost warm if you stood in the sun. In the shade of the woods the temperature was comfortable, despite the cool wind that blew now and then. Birds were singing, squirrels scolded us from the trees, and chipmunks dashed into their hiding places while we walked.

Bucky, wearing my Dad's coat, seemed almost relaxed, following me along one of the paths through the woods. He walked a few paces behind me, always looking around. Sometimes he spun in a little circle while we walked, apparently trying to see in all directions at once.

I glanced over my shoulder and noticed him looking up at the canopy of leaves overhead. They were almost all changed now, forming a blanket of fiery yellow, with speckles of reds, oranges, and some brown. An intense blue sky peeked down at us from the empty patches.

"The leaves are really great this year," I commented, turning to walk backwards for a moment, "I was afraid that with all the rain they would all get pulled down too early."

He nodded but didn't comment.

I was getting used to his quiet 'responses'. I smiled and turned to walk forwards again. As long as he acknowledged me I was happy enough.

His footsteps were barely audible even among the crispy leaves littering the path. I few times I had to look back to make sure he was still following. He stuck close to the sides of the path, almost hugging the trunks of the trees we passed. It looked like he was trying to stay under cover. That didn't surprise me.

The two branches we were going to chop up had, as I'd told him, fallen during a storm. They were lying, half on top of each other, on a small clearing in the woods, near the path we were using. There hadn't been a clearing there before, really, but with the branches on the ground the sun could break through and give the space a more open feeling.

I walked over to them, hefting the weight of the ax in my hand.

"Well, here we are. You ready to get to work?"

Bucky studied the branches from the edge of the path, nodding.

"Good." I walked back to him and handed him the ax.

He looked up at me as if waiting for instruction.

I shrugged, gesturing vaguely towards the branches. "That wood needs to be in small pieces, and it doesn't have to be super neat."

He stayed where he was, staring from the ax to the wood and back again.

"Go on, it's great for stress relief. Just pretend that wood is something bothering you," I mimed swinging an ax down at the ground, "and just go for it. It's fun!"

One branch was only about a foot in diameter at the widest point, the other was maybe two feet, and both were about five feet long, give or take a foot or two. Bucky's first couple of strikes, near the base where the bigger one had broken from the tree, weren't anything impressive.

"Don't be shy!" I called from the path. "Really go at it if you want to!"

I didn't need to tell him twice. His second strike sent the ax head halfway through the branch. Only one strike more and the branch snapped in half. His next strike was even stronger, snapping the branch with a sound like a snapping bone. The strike after that went clean through like the one before it. Splinters flew in every direction.

In a matter of moments the branch was in neat, round slices, twigs and leaves still clinging on, but otherwise totally dismantled.

"Uh, good job, you can-"

Bucky didn't need my permission to move on to the next branch.

His strikes were so powerful that not only did they split the branch, they embedded the ax head deep into the dirt beneath it. He had to struggle to pull it free a few times.

His face was expressionless, and as always he moved and acted in silence. There was no shout with his swings, like there was when my father or even I myself swung the ax. He simply did it, frowning with the exertion during the swing but otherwise totally unmoved. Always silent.

When the branches were apart, he stood for a moment and surveyed his work like he was looking for survivors, ax handle clenched solidly, his grip so tense his knuckles were white.

He set to work cutting the round slices into smaller more firewood-like chunks with the same aggression he'd used to dismantle the branches.

Without consciously deciding to move, I found myself backed to the opposite side of the path with my back against a tree. I watched him hacking away at the wood, working with more aggression than anyone I'd ever seen.

As suddenly as he'd begun, he finished.

He stood like a solemn victor in the center of a disheveled pile of wood, holding the ax in his left hand. He surveyed the pile for anything he'd missed.

"Well...that...that was good." I stammered. "I've never finished that quickly before." I walked towards him, crossing my arms against the chill that had crept in while I'd watched him.

He switched the ax to his left hand, grimacing. He held his right arm against his chest like it was hurting him.

I stopped at the edge of the almost-pile. "You okay? What's wrong?"

He let out a long breath and very slowly straightened his right arm, eyes shut. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" I stepped closer.

He stepped back. "Don't worry about it. Let's carry this back." He started to gesture with his right hand but stopped, setting his jaw and pulling his arm close to his body.

"Let me just look at your arm. What was it, a piece of wood? It was kinda flying everywhere. Did a piece stick you?"

He was still and tense when I got close, but didn't say anything.

I gently put a hand under his elbow and nudged the jacket sleeve up.

Bucky was far bulkier than my father, so the jacket was a little tight. The sleeve wouldn't go up all of the way, and stopped about a quarter of the way up his forearm. Just before the sleeve stopped, I saw his arm was red, and turning a deep purple, like a big bruise.

"Whoa, what happened? Did you hit yourself with the ax or something?"

"It's nothing, just leave it alone."

"No, c'mon Bucky it looks sore, take off your jacket so I can see."

He scowled down at me, but tossed the ax aside and began carefully removing the jacket. He favored his right arm, so I helped him pull the jacket off, sliding the sleeve down his arm.

Without the jacket I could see his arm properly.

His forearm was a bit bruised, but the worst was his upper arm. I gently pushed the t-shirt sleeve up onto his shoulder so I could see his arm better. His upper arm was deeply bruised, so dark purple it was nearly black, just above his elbow. It was also offset, just a bit, but noticeably. Yellowish patches edged the bruising in the center, old bruises, I guessed.

I stared at his arm, stunned. How had I not noticed that earlier? No, I was sure his arm had been fine the last time I saw it...that morning. There might have been an old bruise or two, but nothing like what I was seeing now.

"It looks broken...what did you do?"

He backed away from me, shaking his head. "Just leave it."

I followed him while he backed away. "Bucky come on! When did that happen? How did it happen? How long has it been like that?"

He stopped a few paces away, frowning down at the ground. "It happened a while ago. It's healing."

"Oh yeah, it's purple and sore, that means it's healing."

With obvious difficulty he swung the jacket over his shoulders again and maneuvered his arm into the sleeve. "Forget it."

"No, someone needs to take care of that for you. You should...you should go to a hospital or something!"

The jacket finally on, he straightened. He still wouldn't look at me. "Yeah because I could just walk into the hospital. No problems, that would be totally fine, good idea."

"Bucky!"

"No."

He was right, and I knew it. What choice did he have? No doctor would treat him. At least not without alerting the entire world that the Winter Soldier had a broken arm and was in the hospital. Whoever was searching for him would find him in a heartbeat. Not to mention police, special forces...

"At least let me put ice on it."

"No, Thalia." He turned to face me, metal fist clenched.

Arguing with him was pointless. I stuck my hands in my pockets and frowned at the wood at our feet.

"We gonna bring this up to the house or what?" He asked, gesturing with his metal arm to the wood.

It was almost embarrassing how much more wood Bucky could carry at a time compared to me, even with only one arm. To save my pride, I'm going to point out that he _was_ using his metal arm.

Either way, we brought the wood up to the house, and I brought an armload in to set next in the metal basket beside the stove in the living room.

"All right, now what?" Bucky asked after I'd clumsily stacked the wood. He stood in the living room, his presence commanding, watching me, waiting for orders.

I straightened up, dusting wood chips off my sleeves and chest. "Uh, that's it really. We could rake but I usually wait for the trees to lose more before I do that. So I'm just going to try and get some work done."

"Work?"

"Drawing," I clarified, "I need to get going looking for more work. I have to try and get the word out about my commissions, maybe do a couple gifts for friends so other people see, stuff like that."

He nodded slowly.

"And _you_ need to do something with that arm."

He stiffened, turning slightly so his injured arm was further away from me.

I crossed my arms. "C'mon, if you just let me wrap it up and I'll leave you alone."

He frowned. "I told you it's fine."

"Not it isn't. I'm not an idiot and I don't appreciate your suggesting I am."

"I wasn't-"

"Sit." I pointed at the couch.

He grunted, but slowly sat down on the couch, watching me warily while I walked out of the room.

The first aid kit was in the bathroom, but where it was exactly was a mystery to me. I dug through the cabinets, the medicine cabinet, the drawers under the sink. The whole time I felt like I should hurry, like while I wasn't watching Bucky would hide or run away. That was silly of course, he wasn't a child.

I finally found the small white box in the back of the bottom drawer. I opened it and found it feebly stocked- I often raided it for band-aids or cotton swabs or other random items when I was too lazy to go buy some. I made a mental note to restock it.

I grabbed an ace bandage. I knew his arm should be splinted but I was certain he wouldn't allow that. I would be happy if he would just allow this much. Maybe if this helped he would allow me to do more.

How long had his arm been broken? He hadn't had trouble using the arm the rest of the week, so it seemed that the bone had started to heal. Cutting wood must have simply undone what his body had fixed. I couldn't imagine the pain he must have been in.

I hurried back into the living room. "Okay, I'm no doctor but I think this will-"

The couch was empty. So was the room. Bucky was gone.

I dropped my arms to my sides with a sigh. "Bucky..."

I heard the fridge close in the kitchen. "Yeah?"

Rolling my eyes, I stomped into the room. "I told you to sit!"

"But you didn't tell me to stay." He'd taken out the milk, and turned to set it on the counter and get a glass from the cabinet. He moved to reach for the glass with his right arm, froze for a second or two, and then used his left arm instead.

I sighed and forced myself between him and the counter, reaching up to grab the glass for him. "I don't understand why you won't just let me help you." I pointed at the dining room table. "Sit, and stay this time."

He hesitated but then slowly turned and walked towards the dining room.

After I poured the milk and put it away, I brought the glass in to him in the dining room. He was sitting with his left arm on the table, leaning on it, still holding his arm against his side, not letting it hang. I set the glass on the table.

"Are you going to hold still for this or do I have to muzzle you?" I teased.

He turned and stared at me. My smile disappeared. There was something so haunted, so deep and dark, in his expression. It scared me, and sucked any levity out of the air.

"Sorry." I said, not sure what I was apologizing for. Something I'd said, I was sure. I'd reminded him of something or someone.

He didn't say anything. His eyes shifted to some point over my shoulder, and they remained there in a thousand-yard stare. I moved and he didn't respond. I doubted he could even see me now. He was gone, though his body was here. He was lost in some other place and time, seeing and hearing things I couldn't imagine.

I'd seen him with that look before. It was heartbreaking how often I saw it, really. I wished I knew him better, wished he would be okay with me just hugging him, or something. Anything to bring him back to the present.

"Bucky?"

He blinked.

"Bucky, you need to relax your arm a little, I can't wrap it if you hold it against your side."

"Huh?" He asked. He turned his head and looked at me, the distant look faded a bit. He looked like someone coming out of sleep, dazed and unsure. His eyes were watery. I pretended not to notice that last bit.

"Don't hold your arm against yourself. I need to reach around it."

"Mm." He relaxed a little, wincing.

I started the wrap almost at his shoulder, and moved down slowly, making it a bit tighter where I suspected the break actually was. I wished again that I could splint it. I could tell it wasn't set right. The bone must have been moving, grinding the broken ends together. My own arm was starting to ache in sympathy.

"I can make you a sling, y'know. With a towel or something. It'll make you more comfortable."

He made a sound halfway between a growl and a grunt. "The bandage is enough."

"And ice."

"I said no ice."

I sighed. "Bucky, you won't let me splint it, won't let me make you a sling, you can't go to the hospital, you have to let me at least put ice on it."

He looked away, metal fist clenching and releasing once or twice. "Fine."

I finished the wrap and went to the kitchen, grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped it in a dish towel, and brought it back.

Before I could say anything, he took the ice pack with his left hand and tucked it between his body and his broken arm.

I decided not to argue against it. Quietly I moved to the chair opposite him and sat down.

He was staring at the table.

I studied his face. He looked so sad sometimes, it made me want to just grab him and hug him and tell him he was going to be okay. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be okay with that, though.

He looked so tired, and half deflated. He was pale, his dark hair almost hiding his face, his posture vaguely slouched with his weight on his left side. He looked like he'd been through a wringer. His eyes were distant again. Suddenly he shifted his right arm, his breath catching for the slightest of moments. I might not have even noticed if I hadn't been watching him.

"Why are you punishing yourself?" I don't remember deciding to ask that, it just sort of happened.

He didn't look at me, but swallowed audibly and clenched his left fist. "Wouldn't you?"

There was no way for me to respond to that question. What was I supposed to say? I couldn't imagine the guilt he was experiencing, even with only a fragmented memory. I'd heard stories about the exploits of The Winter Soldier throughout history. He was a dark shadow, a blade with a name, a weapon of mass destruction.

Except he wasn't.

I couldn't explain it. I just knew, somehow, that whatever had gone on with him in those days, it wasn't up to him. I had no idea what he'd been doing, if he'd been drugged, controlled, or what, but someone must have tricked or forced him into those things. I knew it as surely as I knew I was sitting in a chair. As sure as I knew there was air in the room.

"Don't you have to work?" He asked suddenly. He was trying to get rid of me. I was an irritation. A fly buzzing in his face, trying to get him to react.

"It'll keep. Do you want to talk about it?"

"About _what_?"

"About anything. Whatever's bothering you. Whatever happened to you. Whatever you see when you zone out the way you do. I want to help you, Bucky."

He stood up abruptly, making me jump. He tossed the ice pack on the table. When I met his eyes they were blazing, almost vicious. He was breathing too fast. "Talking won't help anything. Talking is useless."

"Bucky-"

"Just _shut up_."

I closed my mouth, shocked. He'd been gruff towards me before, a little grouchy sometimes, but this was different.

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard again, wincing.

We stayed like that for a long time, him shifting his weight side to side, swallowing, not looking at me.

I decided to test the waters. "Do you want to go into the living room? You can sit, relax."

He was quiet for a while, then opened his eyes and nodded.

Since the TV was still something he seemed uncomfortable with, I wasn't quite sure if I should turn it on or not. But with the room silent, he only seemed lost in his thoughts. So I decided on a simple sitcom, no action scenes or shouting. He didn't protest.

For a while he sat on the opposite end of the couch from me, turned away, almost with his back to me, tense, silent.

After a couple of episodes, he started to look a little more relaxed.

I eventually went and got my sketchbook, doodling and sketching while the show went on.

A couple of hours later, Bucky seemed completely relaxed, leaning on the arm of the couch with his left arm, leaning back against the back with a pillow propped under his head. He didn't react much to the show, but he did occasionally almost smile.

After reaching out on my various art accounts online, I'd managed to scrounge up a couple of quick sketch commissions. I was working on those while the show droned on in the late afternoon stillness. I noticed Bucky watching me draw, but didn't say anything.

Despite the peace we'd fallen into, Bucky's earlier...issues...were still grating on me. I'd suspected, but now I knew that his issues went deeper than just amnesia. It seemed like PTSD, and I wasn't sure how to handle that. If he couldn't go to the hospital for a broken arm, he couldn't go to a therapist for this. Plus, if he didn't want to talk about what was going on, I couldn't help him myself.

I glanced up at him. He was watching the TV, absentmindedly biting his lower lip.

While he was watching the show, I picked up my phone. I might not have been able to get him to a therapist, but I could learn what I could myself with some research. Hopefully most of it was correct.

"Get tired of drawing?" He asked suddenly.

I looked up from my phone, feeling inexplicably guilty. "Uh, no, just taking a little break."

He grunted and looked back at the TV.

I let out a little breath, then realized that the episode had ended. I picked up the remote. "We watching another episode? Or do you want to try something else?"

He shrugged, grunting when he moved his right arm. "I'll watch whatever you want."

"Well how about-"

Without warning, Bucky's entire body tensed. He sat up straight, clenching both fists and looking to the front of the house.

I stopped mid-sentence, looking up at the windows also.

A car was coming up the driveway, stray rocks and pebbles popping under the tires. Just one car. But I wasn't expecting anyone. The car pulled up in front of the house and the engine shut off.

"Who is that?" Bucky asked, his voice barely audible.

"I don't know." I admitted, my mouth suddenly dry.

His left hand went to his side, probably reaching for a knife or a sidearm he'd once had.

I tossed my things on the couch and stood up quickly. "Hang on, I'll see who's here."

"Be careful." He said softly when I passed him.

I could hear someone coming up onto the porch.

My heart was in my throat, I was feeling the same rush as I was the night that Bucky had broken in.

There was a knock on the door. Would terrifying people coming in search of a mysterious soldier or assassin knock? I slipped to the far side of the front window nearest the door. Very slowly I edged the curtain aside just the tiniest bit.

Mister Garibaldi stood in front of the door, holding a gallon jug in each hand.

I relaxed, straightened, and turned back to Bucky.

"It's my neighbor," I whispered, "He's fine, but he can't see you. He would never be able to keep it quiet."

Bucky nodded almost imperceptibly.

I went to the door, opening the door just enough for it to look casual but keeping it closed enough that Mr. Garibaldi wouldn't be able to see much behind me.

"Thalia!" He crowed when I opened the door, like he was surprised to see me.

"Hi Mr. Garibaldi." I smiled.

He beamed. "Still livin' like a hermit?"

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, you know me. What's up?"

He hefted one of the jugs, the brownish-amber liquid inside sloshing with the motion. "I thought yeh might want a bit of my world-famous apple cider."

I smiled again, and it was far more genuine. His cider wasn't actually world-famous, but it really _was_ amazing. I wasn't sure why. But it was. "That sounds great, thank you!" I moved to support the door with one foot, and held out my hands to take the jugs.

Mr. Garibaldi leaned back, not offering the cider. "Sure yeh don't want some help bringin' them in? They're awfully heavy, ah'course."

I knew what he was doing. Normally, I'd invite him in, he'd have a cup of coffee and fill me in on the goings on with his family, his kids and his grandkids. His dropping off cider was a social event, not a hit-and-run.

I was sure Bucky had found someplace to hide, but I doubted he would be interested in hiding for the entire time my neighbor was here.

"Um, no, not this time. I've got them. I've got some work to do. Plus the house is a mess."

Mr. Garibaldi frowned for a moment, looking crestfallen. But only for a moment. He cleared his throat and lifted the jugs so I could take them. "No problem. I knew yer workin' hard in there. Artists are always workin' hard. You get back in there an' make us proud of yeh, huh?"

I smiled and took the cider. "I'll do my best. Thanks a lot for the cider."

With Mr. Garibaldi leaving I nudged the door closed with my foot and turned to head for the kitchen. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't surprise me. I brought the cider into the kitchen and rested the jugs on the counter. All the while I listened. I heard Mr. Garibaldi's old pickup start up, ashamed I hadn't recognized the sound of the old engine before. I listened to the truck back up, turn around, and drive away. Still I didn't look for Bucky.

The cider was cool. I was sure he'd had it in a cooler in his truck. He always did, so it was ready to drink when he dropped it off. As fresh as it could be.

I opened the cabinet and took out two glasses. I put one of the jugs of cider in the fridge, but opened the other. Before pouring, I turned to look behind me.

Bucky stood in the doorway, silent, watching me curiously.

"You like cider?" I asked. "Even if you don't you will after this. The best cider ever comes from the apple trees in his backyard."

He didn't say anything.

I turned back to the counter and began pouring some for each of us. Was he starting to get upset again? I hoped not. I had just settled him down. It was like someone waking up a fretful baby right after he'd finally fallen asleep.

After I'd poured some cider into each glass I twisted the lid back on the jug and turned to put it in the fridge. As I was reaching for the handle on the fridge door, something on the white surface caught my eye.

The spider was back, and it was perched merely inches from where my hand would have been if I hadn't seen it.

Taken by surprise I squealed, all but threw the jug back onto the counter, and backed away, mind racing.

_Was that there a minute ago when I opened the fridge before? Did I almost _touch_ it? Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, where's my shoe? I need something to kill it with!_

Not paying much attention to anything else, I backed straight into something solid as a brick wall.

"What's the matter?" Bucky asked. Turned out it was him I backed into. His left hand just briefly rested on my arm. I was too focused on the spider to notice.

"Spider!" I squeaked, pointing at it, but only briefly so it wouldn't get the idea to jump onto my hand.

_Do wolf spiders jump? Ohhhh I hope not._

I sensed movement behind me but didn't care much. All I could focus on was where the spider was, and all the possible places where objects I could use to kill it might be.

Suddenly Bucky was walking past me, approaching the fridge calmly. In one deft motion he swung his left hand and smashed the spider. He looked at his hand and made a face. "Got a tissue?"

I stared at him for a moment in disbelief. He'd just casually not just touched, but _smashed_ a spider with just his hand. True it was his metal one, but still. His _hand_.

I grabbed a paper towel and handed it to him, still in shock.

He, on the other hand, was totally unmoved, wiping spider guts from his fingers and then carefully wiping off the smash mark on the fridge.

"So..." He said thoughtfully as he worked, "You live alone, chop wood in the forest alone, have gone hunting and fishing, own multiple guns...and you're afraid of a _spider_?"

I felt my face heating at the amused tone in his voice. "Shut up. It was huge."

For the first time, although I still wish it was under less embarrassing circumstances, Bucky graced me with a real, genuine smile. He wasn't looking at me, still wiping spider guts from his hand, but he smiled and it was like a breath of fresh air. He might have even chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

It was amazing how different he looked when he smiled. Not carefree, but like he believed that everything would be okay. His entire face lit up with that smile. It was actually kind of adorable.

I couldn't help smiling too. "Just take your cider and get back in the living room, jerk."

He tossed the paper towel in the garbage can, still smiling a bit to himself, seeming genuinely proud. "Want me to go first and check for little baby spiders?"

"Shut _up_."


	4. Interlude- Sleep Is For The Weary

It'd been almost a month since Samuel Wilson and Steve Rogers had last heard from Natasha Romanov, so her sudden texts had been a shock.

She'd been, as usual, close-lipped about what was going on, but she'd wanted them to meet up somewhere to talk.

Steve had pushed the idea aside, making vague excuses, claiming he was better off focusing on his search for Bucky. Sam didn't press the issue, but he did text Natasha.

The streets were crowded with people going on with their lives. People who hadn't been affected for more than a moment by the events from nearly a month ago. They chatted and shouted and laughed and looked at their phones and wrangled children and held hands.

Sam walked around a group of laughing teenagers, trying to act like he felt any version of their enthusiasm. He had to look at least a little happy, after all. He was supposed to be meeting a friend. Shouldn't he be happy?

Natasha had chosen a simple coffee shop in the city, one with free wi-fi and a moderate amount of foot traffic.

When Sam arrived he found it busy but not packed. There were seats open but only a few. It was perfect for hiding in plain sight. He still wasn't totally sure if they even _were_ hiding from anyone, but it was always best to assume so when meeting Natasha.

She was sitting at the table by the front window, dressed as casually as Sam had ever seen her, staring thoughtfully out of the window and sipping a coffee.

Sam breezed over to the seat opposite her.

"Hey."

She smiled. "Hey yourself."

There was a coffee waiting for him on the table. He popped the lid off of the to-go cup and discovered it was already all ready for him.

"I guessed." Natasha said with a shrug.

Sam was sure she'd done nothing of the sort, but decided not to worry about how she'd known how he liked his coffee. "Good guess."

"How's Steve?"

Sam chuckled, sipped his coffee, and winced at the heat. "I was hoping we'd be able to make some kind of small talk before jumping straight into the deep stuff."

"Sorry. How are you, Sam?"

"Worried about Steve."

Natasha frowned. "His search isn't going well?"

"As well as you would probably expect. He's looking for someone trained to be invisible. The fact that he has any leads at all is a miracle."

"He has leads?"

"Somewhat."

"Then what's the problem?"

There had been a coffee stirrer resting on a napkin beside Sam's cup. He picked it up and began absently stirring his drink, staring at the people walking outside. "It's difficult to explain. I mean I know I haven't exactly known him long, but...he's just not right."

"Trauma, probably. Poor guy's been through a lot."

"No kidding," Sam laughed humorlessly, nodding, "But I can deal with trauma. I deal with my own, I've dealt with plenty of other people's. I offer my time, voluntarily, every week, to help people deal with all kinds of trauma."

Natasha leaned on the table, listening.

"There was this guy once, he was the only one of his five buddies who made it home after a dangerous mission. Talk about trauma. But I did what I could, and he's doing better."

"You're good at what you do."

"All I do is listen, really. Offer some thought-out advice."

"You're still good."

Sam shook his head, stopped stirring his coffee, and took another sip. "Eh."

"What's the problem?"

There was a silence between them, punctuated by the noise of the coffee shop.

"He's...I don't know. You'd expect someone who's done and seen the things he has, who's hunting for their best friend, to be irrational, y'know? Erratic. Dealing with nightmares and flashbacks and all that."

"He isn't?"

"I haven't seen any sign of it. That's the issue. He's internalizing, shutting down. All he does is hunt for Bucky. And I mean that's _all he does_. He doesn't eat unless I actually bring him food. He doesn't sleep until he's falling over from exhaustion. He doesn't talk, doesn't read, watch TV, listen to music, nothing. Every now and then he'll take a shower."

"Sounds erratic and irrational to me."

"It is. But it's totally different from what I've ever dealt with. Not that I want him to have some kind of violent outburst or breakdown or something..."

"But at least it would be familiar." Natasha finished for him.

Sam let out a long breath. "Yeah. Does that make me a terrible person?"

Natasha snorted. "I think I'm the wrong person to be asking."

There was another silence while she sipped her coffee and Sam stared at her thoughtfully.

"So why am I here, exactly? You know where we are, you could have just stopped by."

Natasha took her time nursing her coffee, not meeting Sam's eyes. Finally she put the cup down and sighed. "I have a fairly solid lead for Steve."

"Why didn't you just tell us that before?"

She didn't answer and Sam nodded.

"Never mind, I know, not safe. Got it. But why couldn't you just come to the house?"

No response. Just an even stare.

Sam held up his hands, palm out, shaking his head. "Never mind. Answering my own questions."

"I know where he is."

"Who?"

Natasha raised her eyebrows.

Sam sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. He'd heard Steve say those same words so many times, and they'd come up empty. The false hope was eating away at his friend, and Sam didn't want to see what another empty lead might do to him. "You're sure?"

"If I wasn't, would I be here?"

"I don't know. How do you know where he is?"

"Various sources. I was hoping we could figure out a way to get to him. Would Steve talk to me?"

"He'd talk to a dog about this." Sam answered, snapping the travel lid back onto his coffee.

Natasha rose quickly.

Sam moved more slowly, feeling like he was dragging his limbs through mud. What if this was more false hope? Another failure, another defeat, another nail in Steve's coffin. His stomach knotted with indecision and suddenly his coffee seemed much less appetizing. Before Natasha could pass him on her way to the door he reached out and caught her arm, spinning her around to face him.

She frowned, pulling her arm away, looking up at him, puzzled.

"This is killing him," He said without preamble, voice heavy with concern, "All this waiting, the searching. It's eating him from the inside out. If this lead of yours is not one hundred percent, don't even bother telling him. Please."

Natasha met his gaze, and her expression softened. She looked down briefly before meeting his eyes again. She took a deep breath, setting her jaw.

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here."

Sam let go of her arm with a slight nod, then headed for the shop's front door.

Sam hadn't bothered to lock the front door when he'd left the house. Anyone who bothered to break in would have Captain America to deal with, and Steve could probably use the physical activity.

Natasha followed him inside, seeming startled by the state of the house.

It wasn't untidy, but Steve's searching had roamed through the house. Maps were pinned on the walls in the living room, with notes and circles and lines and arrows scrawled on them in Steve's handwriting. Papers with notes from obscure sources, stories copied from people online who claimed to have seen The Winter Soldier, and vague sketches littered the couch. Sam had coerced Steve to pause and eat some dinner, and the plate from that was still sitting on the coffee table.

Sam picked up the plate and looked around.

"Steve? Steve, it's me. I'm home. Where are ya?"

Natasha came up beside him, taking everything in with a few quick looks.

A quick search of the house turned up nothing. Steve wasn't there.

"Could he have gone out searching somewhere without you?"

Sam bit his lip, knowing that could very well be true. But he wouldn't admit it to Natasha. "No, I know where he is."

The Smithsonian was going to be closing soon. The rooms were almost totally deserted. It was quiet and warm. The lights were soft, soothing. The few patrons still browsing the exhibits strolled along leisurely, taking their time.

Sam and Natasha ignored the clerk at the entrance mentioning the museum would be closing soon. They swooped down the halls and up the stairs with a speed borne of single-minded purpose.

The Captain America exhibit was a wing in itself. It was empty, at the moment. The looping videos droned on in the silence. Black and white images flickered on small screens, reflecting off the glass covering various random artifacts. The history of Captain America was spread out in front of them.

Sam lead Natasha through the winding hall until they were almost at the end.

A single figure stood in the gentle light. Tall and muscular, stone-still, like one of the faceless mannequins on display.

Steve was standing in front of the tall glass memorial, the one that spelled out the life and death of James Buchanan Barnes.

"Is he okay?" A voice asked suddenly, making Sam jump.

An elderly man stood nearby, dressed in black pants and a white shirt with a security badge. He nodded at Steve. "He's been there for like half an hour. I thought maybe he was a slow reader but I just told him we're getting ready to close and he didn't even move."

"He's...he's fine." Sam said, watching Steve.

"Well he's gotta be out in ten minutes." The man said with a shrug.

"Yeah, we'll get him."

While Sam approached his friend, Natasha hung back.

The guard took a few steps over to her. "This is gonna sound a little crazy...but is he, y'know..._him?_ Captain America?"

Natasha smiled at the man. "I'm afraid that's classified."

The guard smiled to himself, positively delighted even though Natasha hadn't even technically answered his question. Satisfied, he turned and walked away, whistling an unfamiliar tune to himself.

Sam didn't say anything to Steve, just walked up beside him.

Steve didn't react.

The etching on the memorial, Bucky's face, smiling, wearing his army uniform, stared back at the two of them.

"Steve, what're you doing here? I thought you were staying home today."

Steve didn't react.

Natasha approached carefully, staying behind them both. "Steve?"

That seemed to break into his thoughts. Surprised, Steve turned and looked over his shoulder.

Natasha hesitated, probably shocked by Steve's state.

Sam didn't blame her. Last time she saw him Steve looked far healthier, back when he was sleeping, eating, exercising. Now his skin was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was mussed like he hadn't brushed it in days, and his eyes were clouded with emotions and thoughts he didn't seem to be able to communicate. "Tasha?"

"Hey." She smiled. "How are you?"

Steve smiled, trying to appear cheerful. "I've been better. But not too bad."

Sam frowned and gripped the metal railing in front of the memorial.

"What brings you here?" Steve asked.

Sam watched Natasha's face and prayed she wouldn't drop the bomb all at once.

"Just some business."

Steve nodded and turned back to face the memorial.

Natasha came up on his opposite side. "Steve..." She hesitated, catching Sam's eye.

He'd never known her to be an overly emotional person, but he knew seeing Steve like this must have been painful. _Try seeing it every day_.

She glanced briefly at Steve, then back at Sam. Asking permission to tell him.

Sam looked up at Steve's face.

He was so distant. Despite his attempts to seem like himself, smiling and polite, there was a hollowness in his manner. His mind was constantly here, even if he wasn't.

No, not here. Not in the museum, with the dusty relics, fading photos, and impersonal plaques. His mind was in the old days, the moments captured on grainy videos. While others looked at the photos and read the memorial of Bucky Barnes, Steve was living it. Living it all. Every faded moment in the photographs was so recent, like yesterday.

Sam had tried to imagine what he'd feel if Riley showed up again, memory gone, but alive. And in those moments he didn't fault Steve his feverish search.

Natasha was done waiting for Sam's answer.

"Steve, I know where he is. For sure."

There was a long moment where Steve didn't respond. Sam wondered if he'd even heard her.

Then he turned around suddenly, walking purposefully towards the exit. "Let's go then."


	5. Chapter 4- Maybe It'll Last Forever

The phone rang, echoing through the house and making me jump in Bucky's behalf. He didn't seem to notice the noise at all.

He was watching me stir cookie batter. I'd found a mix in the pantry that hadn't expired yet, and since I'd finally finished the horrible job for the horrible clients and was just waiting for the last of their payment to clear, it seemed like a fun idea to have some cookies. Plus, I was running out of food and was trying to put off grocery shopping. I was _not_ looking forward to having to buy enough to feed myself _and_ the bottomless pit that was Bucky Barnes.

So cookies for lunch it was.

When the phone rang I shoved the bowl into Bucky's arms. "Stir that until the lumps are gone."

He grunted and took up stirring with no complaint.

"Hello?" I chirped into the phone. I already knew who it was- it was Sunday, the day my mother always called. This was the second time she'd called while Bucky was here and so far she hadn't guessed anything was up.

"Hi sweetie! It's Mom. How are you?"

"I'm fine, how are you guys?" I frowned at Bucky, who was happily sampling the dough off the spoon.

"Oh the usual. Anything exciting going on up there?"

Bucky smirked and put the spoon back in the bowl. I rolled my eyes. "No, not really. Just a lot of rain."

It'd been a little more than a week and Bucky had changed, in a good way. Since that first smile after he killed the spider he'd begun smiling much more often. I loved his smile. It was the kind that lit up his whole face, changed his demeanor totally, and turned an almost frightening tower of muscle into a teddy bear you just wanted to hug.

He still had his moments where his past crashed down around him, pulling him down with it. Sometimes he would remember the faintest echo of something and it would bring him down, for an hour, for two, sometimes for the whole day. And I just kind of had to roll with it.

He had bad days and good days, and today was definitely a good day.

"I forgot to ask last time I called, did your sister tell you about the issue with the car on Friday?"

"No, what happened?"

While my mother related the story of their old station wagon running out of gas on the highway during rush hour, I tried to stop Bucky from eating all of the cookie dough.

I moved the receiver so I wouldn't accidentally speak into it. 'Stop it', I mouthed at him.

He had the bowl on the counter and was leaning beside it, facing me. With a cheeky little grin he scooped a blob onto one finger and ate it happily.

I grabbed the bowl and pulled it away from him, scraping it across the counter.

He pressed his lips together in a firm line to hold back a laugh.

"And of course the insurance wouldn't pay for the scratches because..."

I 'yep'ed and 'uh-huh'ed into the phone, staring down into the bowl of cookie dough. In my peripheral vision, a hand began to reach for the bowl again.

I smacked his hand away with an audible 'slap'. In so doing I bumped the bowl and nearly overturned it- the heavy ceramic clunked down on the table and the spoon clattered against the side.

My mother paused. "Are you _cooking_?"

Bucky was trying to reach for the bowl again. I held a finger to my lips in a 'shh' gesture and he froze obediently. For all the goofiness he was full of today, he didn't want my mother to know he was there any more than I did.

"Just making cookies."

"Without me? However will you manage all of that work on your own?"

I smiled, watching Bucky slowly begin to reach for the bowl again. "I'll manage."

Mom want back to her stories about the things happening at home. I snapped my fingers and pointed at the sink. 'Wash your hands', I mouthed.

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned to do so.

While my Mom talked and while Bucky washed his hands, I took out two baking trays and set them on the table. I brought the bowl of dough over and set it beside them.

After washing my hands, I joined Bucky back at the table. Supporting the phone against my shoulder, I took a small handful of cookie dough and rolled it into a ball between my hands.

Bucky watched intently, waited until I'd done two, and then began to do the same thing. The dough stuck aggressively to his metal fingers. I didn't envy him the task of later trying to get that off. He frowned at the mess and I held back a giggle.

He looked up at me and raised one eyebrow before smiling again.

It goes without saying that I loved his good days. But they made the bad days harder. It was more than the obvious- watching a cheerful friend go back to a sullen, broken soldier, or that one-step-forward-then-two-steps-back feeling. Seeing Bucky on these good days gave me a glimpse of who he might once have been, what he'd been like before he'd been The Winter Soldier. Such a cheerful, lighthearted guy with a smile to light up a whole city block, and he'd been forced into becoming a monster.

He paused in helping me make balls of dough to study the mess his hand had become. He cursed softly in Russian and then went back to work.

It didn't seem that he noticed himself speaking in Russian. I didn't mention it.

"Are you listening to me?" Mom asked on the phone.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yep."

There was a silence on the other end that told me she didn't believe me. For a moment I wondered if she'd heard Bucky curse. My heart almost stopped for a moment, but then she launched right back into her stories.

We finished setting the dough onto the trays, and I went to the sink to wash the sticky mess off my hands.

"Oh, and one more thing." Mom was saying, just as it sounded like she was drawing to a close.

"Yeah?" I asked.

Bucky, trying to wipe the dough from his hands with a kitchen towel, gestured at the trays and then tilted his head at the oven. I nodded, and he grabbed the trays to put them in.

"Are you doing okay up there? Not working too hard?" Her voice was soft, like there was something else she wanted to ask but couldn't find the words to do so.

I paused, slowly drying my hands with another towel that _wasn't _covered in cookie dough. "Yeah Mom, I'm fine. Trust me, working too hard is the last thing I'm doing. Things have been pretty slow. But I'm okay."

There was a long silence.

Bucky started to close the oven, but with the dough covering his hands the handle slipped from his grasp and the door slammed. He froze and looked at me fearfully.

If Mom heard it she didn't say anything about it. "Okay...you have enough food? Do you need money?"

"Mom, if I needed help I would ask for it."

"No you wouldn't."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious."

"So am I." She sighed. "I just worry, Thalia. You're the only daughter I don't see every day...if I didn't call you who knows when I would hear from you? And you're so isolated up there...you could get hurt, or someone could break in..."

I glanced at Bucky. He was still trying to get the cookie dough off of his metal hand.

"...And I would never know!" Mom went on.

I sighed. "I know. But Mister Garibaldi is up here, he checks on me. And...would it make you feel better if I called more? I'm going grocery shopping tomorrow...I can call you after I get back? I could use someone to talk to while I put everything away."

"...All right. Promise?"

"Promise."

I heard one of my sisters shout something on the other end of the line. Mom sighed. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Be careful sweetheart. I love you."

"Love you too."

After we said our goodbyes, I pressed the 'end' button on the phone and let out a long breath. After I set the phone back in the base I joined Bucky by the oven and set the timer for the cookies.

"You don't like lying."

I looked up at him scrubbing away at his hand.

"Not to my Mom, no."

He nodded, not looking at me. "You're a good liar."

He probably meant it as a compliment, but I had a hard time hearing it as one. I couldn't think of a response so instead I turned and started bringing the dirtied bowls and utensils to the sink to wash.

As usual I hardly heard him move. He was simply at my side at the sink. It didn't even startle me anymore.

"Sorry." He said awkwardly.

"Don't be. It isn't your fault." I turned on the water and waited for it to warm up.

He seemed to give up on his hand, setting the towel on the counter and frowning at the mess.

"It is, though." He went on, talking to the towel instead of me. "If I wasn't here you wouldn't have to lie."

"If you hadn't been forced into being what you were, you wouldn't have had to find somewhere safe to stay. It's not your fault." The water was as hot as I could stand. I let it fill one of the big bowls.

Bucky didn't respond to what I'd said. Whether it was out of surprise or stubbornness I wasn't sure, and I didn't look up at his face to see.

He was still standing beside me, just there, not talking. I glanced at his hand.

Over the course of his staying with me I'd quietly learned and mentally listed the unwritten 'rules of Bucky'. Out of those, one of the first I'd noted was that he was very sensitive to touch. Physical contact was a very dangerous area. You did _not_ touch him when he wasn't expecting it.

"Want me to help?" I asked, nodding to his hand.

"If you can." He grunted.

Moving slowly enough that he would see my intention, I gently took his left wrist in my hand and moved his arm until his hand was under the hot water.

"That okay? Not too hot?" I had no idea what he could feel with that hand, or if he could even feel anything with it at all.

He offered no clue. "It's fine."

After giving the water a few moments to remove the fierce stickiness, I grabbed a dish sponge and carefully wiped the mess away, then moved his hand away from the water and wrapped it in a paper towel.

"There, all better." I smiled, looking up at his face.

He looked quietly amused, looking at his hand while I held the towel around it. "Thanks."

I realized I was pretty much just standing there holding his hand, and felt my cheeks warming. I let go of his hand and he took over the act of drying it, wandering away to toss the damp paper towel in the garbage can.

Making sure to keep my face turned away from him so he wouldn't see me blush, I began washing the dishes.

His voice came from the other side of the kitchen. "Is this your Mom?"

I looked over my shoulder, hands still in the sink.

He stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, looking at a pair of photos hanging on the wall. One was a photo from my parents' wedding day. The other was more recent, a photo of my mother sitting in one of our canoes on the lake, smiling and laughing.

"Yeah," I said, turning back to the sink, "My sister took that one on the right last year. Mom hates it but she let us put it up anyway."

"She looks like a nice person."

"She is." I swallowed hard. "She would like you."

He made a noise something like a short laugh. "You think so?"

I tried to imagine my mother meeting Bucky Barnes. If she could get over the horror of her daughter having sheltered someone like him, the idea that I'd lied to her about something like this, sure, she'd like him.

It would all come out someday, I couldn't hide him forever. I thought of my mother's face, the idea of her finding out I'd simply not told her that Bucky had been there, right in the kitchen while I talked to her. That he'd _broken in_, that I actually_ trusted _him...she'd never believe anything I told her ever again.

The dishes got blurry and wobbly before me. I used my forearm to quickly wipe my eyes.

"How long am I expected to wait for these cookies?" Bucky asked.

"Little more than fifteen minutes now. Think you can make it?"

A groan, then a sound like him flopping into a chair in the dining room. "Fine."

I smiled. I wasn't sure if the water running down my face was from when I wiped my eyes with wet arms, or if I'd started crying in earnest. At least my voice hadn't sounded wobbly or thick. "You're so brave."

This time my voice wobbled, crackling. I shouldn't have pushed it.

The chair in the dining room scraped on the ground. The floor creaked. He was standing in the doorway.

I didn't turn around, swallowing thickly, trying to force the tears to stop. It was stupid. Why was I crying over something I couldn't change? It was too late now. I couldn't send Bucky away. I didn't want to.

"Are you-"

"I'm fine."

He came over to me, standing at my right. Suddenly he reached out with his right hand and turned my face so I was looking at him.

His eyes were wide and confused, like he'd never seen tears before. He just stared at me, not saying anything.

I turned my head away, rinsing the last bowl. He didn't try to stop me.

"Just forget about it." I said after the silence stretched out a little longer.

He didn't walk away.

"I'm fine, just go do something and wait for the stupid cookies, okay?"

He still didn't move.

"Jerk." I huffed.

"Punk." He responded immediately.

Once the dishes were done I set to work tidying up the rest of the kitchen, trying to keep my mind off of how I felt. Bucky busied himself with reading on the couch until the oven timer went off and it was time to take the cookies out.

I heard him coming and quickly turned to grab an oven mitt off of the hook over the counter, smiling at his eagerness. Good or bad days, food was something he was always happy about.

I turned, putting the oven mitt on my hand.

Bucky already had the oven open and was happily pulling the tray out with his left hand.

"Bucky!" I gasped.

He jumped, tray wobbling in his grip.

I'd totally forgotten about his metal hand. I rarely mentioned it, since I wasn't sure if it would set him off to talk about it. I'd gotten used to the look of it, the nearly imperceptible whirrs when he lifted things or stretched. It was normal.

He looked at me in surprise for only a few seconds before he realized my mistake. He smiled and hefted the tray in his hand, then set it on a cooling rack I'd set out earlier.

I sighed and tossed the mitt back on the counter. "Sorry."

"It's all right," He smiled, studying the cookies on the tray, "I forgot you aren't used to it."

I smacked his hand away before he could grab one of the gooey treats. "No, I am used to it, that's the problem. I mean in my head it's just your arm."

He frowned at me for a moment but didn't try to grab another cookie.

"Can you feel anything with that hand?" I asked. The question had been bugging me for a while now but I hadn't found a good time to ask. This seemed like as good a time as ever.

He shrugged. "Some things. Basic stuff. I can tell if something's hot, or cold. I can feel texture if it's obvious but not really in the same way my other hand does, if that makes any sense."

"So you could just stick your hand in a fire and be fine?"

He snorted, shaking his head with a smile. "Not really. I wouldn't get burned but...it wouldn't really hurt...but it would be uncomfortable...and if I was in a fire and the fire got up _inside_ the arm, _that_ would hurt."

I didn't ask how he knew that. "Oh. Cool. But what about water? I mean you take showers, so it can get wet then."

"Oh, yeah, no problem. It...well I wouldn't say it's indestructable..." Something odd flashed across his face for a brief moment and he hesitated for a moment before continuing, "But it takes a lot to hurt it at all. EMPs can disable it but only for a few seconds."

He held out his arm for us both to inspect. He was wearing a t-shirt so the majority of the metal was visible.

"Is it heavy?"

"Not to me." He held his arm out towards me as if offering it for my inspection.

"Lemme see your other arm."

He held out his flesh-and-blood arm beside his metal one. The movement was still a little stiff, and his upper arm still a little bruised, but overall it was normal. Phenomenal improvement in less than a week.

I rested my hands against the underside of his right arm and he let me take the weight of it. After a moment, I let go and moved to his left arm, repeating the process. I lifted his arm up and down in my hands thoughtfully, then shrugged.

"I don't know, they both feel heavy to me."

He laughed, crossing his arms. "Well you're a tiny little woman."

I punched his left arm and immediately regretted it. I squeaked and held my hand, stinging with the impact.

He started laughing again, harder, bending forward slightly.

Laughing, I shoved his shoulder so he had to take a step or two back. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," He coughed, slowly recovering, "Can we eat these cookies now?"

I poked at one of the cookies. It was still warm but not hot. "Yeah, go get a couple napkins or something."

Somehow the cookies lasted until that evening.

Bucky was much more relaxed with television now, as long as we watched fairly calm things. We mostly watched simple comedies, although he didn't seem to understand most of the references that made me laugh. He still seemed amused by them, so I didn't question it.

Most of our evenings were spent that way, settled on the couch munching on whatever snacks we could find, each wrapped in a blanket, on opposite ends of the couch, watching TV. As we became more relaxed with each other we'd become less bound to our individual ends of the couch, and now I would let my legs stretch over to his side while I leaned against a pillow propped on the armrest. Bucky would rest his arm on the back, then stretch out one leg on the couch beside mine. There wasn't room for both of his legs with mine so he'd just stretch the other out and let it hang off the couch.

It was comfortable. Whatever snack we had rested in a bowl or on a plate between us and we'd graze mindlessly. There was only some talking, commenting on the show or a commercial, but rarely was there actual conversation. But that seemed to be what he needed. Peace.

There was no question that he had nightmares whenever he slept. It was obvious, an unspoken truth whenever he came to breakfast disheveled and haunted-looking. He would occasionally doze off on the couch, then wake with a start, sitting up and looking around the room before slowly settling back down.

He always put off going to bed, and I was sure the nightmares were why. I tried to stay up as late as I could with him, if only so when he dozed I would be there when he woke up. I would go on until I couldn't hold my eyes open anymore, and I couldn't muster the will to start another episode of whatever was on TV.

Tonight it seemed I wouldn't last very long. I was already dozing and it was only ten. Bucky kept giving me odd sidelong looks from his side of the couch. He was probably wondering why I was practically doing acrobatics trying to keep myself awake. Fidgeting wasn't helping.

Finally the episode we were watching ended. I sat up, tossing the cozy green blanket off of myself and resting my feet on the floor. Bucky gave me a questioning glance.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." I yawned, stretching. "Then I'm probably going to go to bed."

He swallowed, then looked back at the TV.

"You want me to start another episode?"

He shook his head. "No. I'll probably go to bed."

That surprised me. He actually wanted to go to bed? I raised my eyebrows at him when he tossed his own blanket aside and stood.

"What?"

I shrugged, reaching for the remote to shut off the TV. "Nothing."

Normally when I'm in the shower I spend a lot of time thinking about things. Stuff that's bothering me, stuff I have to get done, things like that. This time though, I spent a lot of time trying _not_ to think. I didn't want to think about how my mom would react to learning about Bucky. I didn't want to think about Bucky's nightmares. I didn't want to think about whether or not I was actually helping him at all.

The truth was, when it came to helping him recover I was totally lost. I didn't know if I was helping or making things worse. It seemed like he was making progress but was he really? Was I slowing him down? Should I have been pushing him more?

I wondered, standing under the shower head and letting the hot water rinse the shampoo from my hair, if it would help if I knew what had happened to him. What had _really_ happened.

_Whatever happened to Bucky Barnes?_ I mused.

His name bugged me. Not that I didn't like it or that I thought he should have a different one, nothing like that. It was just...it was like when you heard a voice in an animated movie and knew who it was but just couldn't think of their name. Something about 'Bucky Barnes' rang a bell way back in my brain, too faintly for me to understand.

Frustrated, tired, I went back to my shower.

Eventually I got out, dried off, and put on some pajamas. When I walked out of the bathroom I glanced at Bucky's bedroom door. The light was off. Presumably he was sleeping.

The door was open just a bit, and I considered peeking in to check on him, but then I decided that was creepy and shook it off.

In my own room I settled into my bed and switched off the light beside my bed, ready to fall asleep.

I didn't. There was still something rattling around my brain.

_Whatever happened to Bucky Barnes?_

I tried to put the odd familiarity of his name out of my head. But it kept poking at me.

My phone was beside my bed, plugged in but still on. I rolled over and grabbed it. The light burned my eyes for a few seconds while I entered the passcode to unlock the screen but I blinked the discomfort away.

I opened my internet browser, typed 'Bucky Barnes' into the search bar, tapped 'go'.

The first results were all links to the Smithsonian.

I made a face, looked again at what I had typed. Had I misspelled something? Why on earth would I be directed to the museum?

I sighed and was about to give up and snuggle back into my sheets, when something in one of the results caught my eye.

_Come visit the all-new Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian! Explore the history of the 'Star-Spangled Man With A Plan', from his beginnings, his exploits with his best friend James 'Bucky' Barnes and the Howling Commandos, right down to the modern day!_

I stared at the overly enthusiastic paragraph for a long time, then clicked the link.

The museum had only a bit of information, but that wasn't why I clicked. I realized now why I knew the name- I'd gone to the exhibit with my family a year or so ago. Bucky, _my_ Bucky, the guy sleeping two doors down, was actually...no, he _couldn't be_, James Buchanan Barnes.

Backing out of the museum's website before it even fully loaded, I looked at the other results. I clicked on a wikipedia article.

I skimmed the curt article while the header image loaded. It described Bucky simply as a 'companion of Captain America' who had served with him in the Howling Commandos.

The image loaded, popping up suddenly in the white web page. Yes, it was Bucky. Younger looking, happier, with shorter hair and a cleanly shaven face, but it was him.

I sat up to sit cross-legged on my bed, setting my phone in front of me, the only light in the darkness of the room. I stared at the picture on the screen. It was grainy and old-looking but it was clear enough for me to see that Bucky had two normal hands. This was before he'd lost his arm.

My brain swirled with the impossibility of it all. How was it that Bucky had been in the war with Captain America, and yet now he was here, looking almost the same as then, more than seventy years later?

Closing my eyes I took a deep breath and tried to think.

Captain America had been frozen, trapped in a glacier until only a couple of years ago. But according to the article, and the museum exhibit from what I could remember, Bucky had fallen off of a moving train.

I looked at the article again. That was where the information ended. The train. I looked up any images possible of the plaque in the museum that described Bucky. Any other online article or history lesson. It all ended there.

_James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes died when he fell from a moving train during one of the many missions the Howling Commandos undertook._

How? _How _was he alive? How was he here, sleeping in my house?

Whatever had happened to traumatize him the way he was had to have happened after the train, since no fall could possibly have caused issues like he had. Besides, falling from a train alone wouldn't have made him a match for Captain America. And where had the metal arm come from? Something or someone had saved him, if you could call it that, and changed him into what he had been a few short weeks ago.

From somebody's best friend to a ruthless killer.

Suddenly it really sank in that this was _Captain America's _best friend. Was he looking for him? Was I keeping him from finding Bucky? Did he want him back at all?

I couldn't reconcile the idea that they were best friends when they had been fighting, both trying to kill the other. It didn't make sense. ...Or did it?

I searched for the video they'd shown on the news, the shaky phone video of the pair of men fighting in the street. I watched and rewatched it several times, watching them closely.

It was Bucky, almost always Bucky. He was the aggressor. He'd swing a punch, he'd run after Captain America, he'd go at him with a knife. The other man was defending himself, or trying to stop Bucky. No, not Bucky. The Winter Soldier.

A quick internet search of The Winter Soldier brought up little, but there was a list. A list of all of the attacks, assassinations, and other violence he was thought to be connected to.

I tossed my phone away and it landed a foot or two away on the bed.

My brain and my stomach were churning, trying to absorb everything. I was dizzy with confusion and nauseated at the idea of what I was suddenly in the middle of. Bucky had been taken, kidnapped, stolen. Someone had shoved The Winter Soldier into his body instead.

Bucky, the guy who stole cookie dough and smiled that light-up-the-room smile had been trampled, kicked into the dirt and smothered by the _monster_ he'd been forced to become. The people he was hiding from, they had to be the ones who had done that to him. How was he sure they wouldn't find him? How did he know he was safe?

_I can't protect him,_ I thought, a fresh wave of nausea making me swallow convulsively, _If they come to get him I can't stop them, I can't save him. They would take him away and I would be completely useless._

I was shaking. Confused. Scared. I was in way over my head and could only go deeper.

I laid down again and pulled the blankets over my head as if that would protect me from the terrifying images and thoughts in my head. I curled up in a ball and squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could. Just sleep. Sleep. Things will look better in the morning.

I laid there for maybe twenty minutes, trying to force myself to relax.

Just as I was beginning to do so, the knot in my stomach releasing, I heard it.

A shout, almost a scream, rough and terrified.

I sat up immediately, heart racing.

Another scream. A thud. Something falling.

_Bucky._

I flung my blankets away and jumped out of bed, ran out of the room to Bucky's bedroom door.

Inside I could hear him moving around, like he was running or pacing quickly. He let out another half-scream, half-moan.

"Bucky?" I called, knocking on the door. "Bucky are you okay?"

He didn't respond to me.

"Bucky I'm coming in."

"No!" He screamed. Something fell, I heard something break.

Ignoring his shout I pushed on the door. It wouldn't budge.

I tried again. It moved a bit. It wasn't locked, there was something blocking it.

I pushed my shoulder into it and shoved, pushing it open far enough that I could see in the room.

Bucky was still, now. I could see him, a huddled shadow in the corner opposite me.

A few more shoves. It was the bookcase that had once been behind the door. It was on the ground, a few books scattered around it. The bedside lamp was on the floor too. That explained the sound of something breaking. The blankets were off the bed, lying in a heap on the ground.

I stepped over the bookcase, then, once I was in the room, I paused to look up at Bucky.

He hadn't moved. He was in the corner, tucked into it as far as possible, like he was trying to hide. He was curled up, his knees to his chest, his arms crossed tightly against his body, his head down. His whole body was tense, and he was breathing hard.

"Bucky?"

He made a sound halfway between a moan and a growl.

Slowly I picked my way across the room until I was a couple of feet away from him. I couldn't see his face from his angle, but I was hesitant to get closer until I knew what he was feeling. "Bucky, was it a nightmare?"

He didn't move.

I knelt on the rug, not sure what to do.

Suddenly he turned to look at me.

The moonlight was shining into his room, and in the silver light he was white as a sheet, except for his eyes. Around his eyes was red, as if he had a raging fever. His eyes were wide open, pupils so dilated with fear I could hardly see the blue around them. His breath came in gasps. Sweat made his dark hair cling to his face.

"Bucky." I repeated softly.

"Thal..."

"You're okay Bucky. It was just a nightmare."

"I..." He swallowed, staring both at me and through me. "I remember."

"Remember what?"

He paused, mouth open, staring at the window. Suddenly he turned back into the corner, tensing up again. He let out a rough groan, a shudder running through his whole body.

Not sure what to do, I moved closer. "Bucky, what happened? What did you remember?"

He didn't respond. Without thinking, I reached over and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Like a coiled spring being released, he turned on me, shoving me away with both hands so hard I stumbled backwards, slamming into the wall and whacking my head. "Don't touch me!"

I let myself slide slowly to the floor, shocked and a little dizzy from the impact.

Before I could recover, he stood shakily, still in the corner. He was raking his fingers through his hair so hard it looked painful. He shifted his weight listlessly, staring into the distance at something horrible I couldn't see, yet again.

I struggled to my feet. "Bucky-"

"No!" He cried, backing away from me, looking at me like I was evil incarnate, "Leave me alone!"

I stopped moving. "Bucky, it's me, it's Thalia!"

His gaze fell on my face briefly. He wouldn't, probably couldn't, stay still. He suddenly seemed to recognize me again. "Thalia...Th...I...I need..."

Suddenly he whirled and stumbled quickly out of the room.

Terrified he'd fall down the stairs or something and hurt himself, I followed.

He didn't fall but he did go down the stairs, stumbling to the front door.

"Bucky!"

He yanked it open, stumbling out into the night.

My heart was racing, practically beating out of my chest, when I followed him outside. I was afraid he would keep going, wander out into nowhere and get lost.

I needn't have worried. Roughly ten feet from the front door he fell to his knees, leaned to support himself with his arms, and stayed there on all fours.

Gravel scraped my bare feet while I approached, stopping a few feet away. I said nothing.

His breath was raspy, mixed with fearful whimpers. He was gasping for breath as if he was drowning. Then suddenly he was on his feet again, not walking or going anywhere but stumbling in a listless circle.

"No, nonononono, leave me alone...no..." He groaned, shaking his head, raking his fingers through his hair again.

I got a bit closer. "Bucky...what did you remember?"

"Everything!" He choked out.

Everything. Everything about what had happened, what had been done to him.

"Oh...Bucky..." I whispered.

He looked at me briefly, looking so ruined and broken and sad that I could barely hold eye contact. He looked sick, weaving in a restless circle on the gravel driveway. Then he _was_ sick.

He fell to his knees, coughing and sputtering.

I ran to his side, resting a hand on his sweat-soaked back. "Oh, Bucky, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I know, I know..."

I combed my fingers into his hair and pulled it back while he was sick again. Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes but I ignored them, holding his hair back with one hand, holding onto his right arm with the other.

When he was finished he backed up a little, sitting on the ground, staring at the driveway. I followed, sitting beside him.

He seemed a little bit calmer, though he was still trembling violently.

I wrapped one arm around his right, hugging it close to me. With my other hand I used my sleeve to wipe tears and sweat from his face. He didn't protest, leaning into the touch.

We sat in silence for a long time. Crickets chirped loudly in the night, the wind blew occasionally, and we sat in my driveway absorbing what had just happened to him.

He took a deep breath, though it was shaky.

"Any better?" I asked softly.

"No." His voice was raspy and weak.

He'd stopped crying, but I felt tears in my eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to help."

He swallowed.

"Bucky." I began; the tears were coming for sure this time and I didn't want to stop them.

He turned his sad, haunted eyes to me.

"What _happened_ to you?" I barely managed to get the words out around the knot in my throat. As soon as I asked the question tears started running down my face. I wiped at them with my other sleeve.

He looked away and I was afraid he would be angry. But then he sighed, turning back to me, looking defeated, wounded, and very _very_ tired. "What do you want me to tell you?"

I swallowed, meeting his gaze as surely as I could. I still had his right arm, and I shifted so I was holding his hand instead. "Everything I don't want to hear."

He told me _everything_. About being taken from the ravine after the fall. About what they'd done to what was left of his left arm _while he was awake_. About being frozen, again and again, over and over. About everything. There were still holes in his memory but it was enough, more than enough.

By the time he was done I was crying and so was he.

It must have been almost an hour later that we both calmed down enough to think a little clearly.

I wiped at my eyes, shivering in the night's cold.

"You ready to go in?" I asked.

He nodded.

We stood, and I led him back into the house. After closing and locking the door again, we went up to his bedroom. Without a word we both lifted the bookcase back into place, piling the scattered books to put right tomorrow. I lifted the two halves of what had been the lamp and set them on the nightstand. We straightened up the blankets and laid them back on the bed.

When he didn't get into bed I hopped up on top of the covers and moved over. I stayed on top of the bedspread but folded the blankets beside me down and looked up at Bucky expectantly.

He hesitated briefly, but then sat on the bed. He laid down slowly, and I tossed the blankets back over him. He wriggled around, getting comfortable.

I moved to get off the bed, but his metal arm swooped out and caught my wrist, holding me on the bed. "Where are you going?" His voice was nervous again, like a child afraid to be left alone in the dark.

I blinked. "Nowhere." I responded, laying back against the headboard. "I'm not going anywhere. Just getting comfortable."

He looked like he didn't believe me but he nodded.

With him lying down and me sitting, his head was about at the level of my hip. He was looking up at me, looking more like a sad little puppy than ever.

"You should try to sleep." I told him in my best 'mother' voice.

He grunted, looking away.

Gently I reached over and brushed his hair out of his face. "Just try to think about good things. Like cookies. You don't have to worry about what happened to you anymore. You're safe now." That was a lie. I had no idea if he was safe or not.

He let out a deep, slow sigh, pulling the blankets a little higher over his shoulder, almost covering his face.

I rested my head against the headboard, leaning a little over him and continuing to play with his hair. "Nothing bad is going to happen. You're good now." More lies. I had no idea what would happen now.

A gentle weight rested against my hip. His head. He was resting his head against me. His eyes were closed, and it looked like he was relaxing.

"Just breathe, in and out...in and out..."

I stayed there beside him in the dark and the quiet for a long time. My back started to ache from the odd position I was in, and I was getting sleepy.

I looked down at him. He looked like he was asleep, his face peaceful, breathing slow and even.

Despite all that had happened I had to smile at him now.

Carefully I started to shift, sliding away from him to get off of the bed and head back to my own.

The bed creaked a little when I shifted my weight, but otherwise my escape began silently. I was just about to put my feet on the floor when Bucky's hand shot out and caught my right wrist.

I squeaked in alarm and turned to look at him.

His eyes were only barely open, his brow furrowed and a slight frown on his face. "Where are you going?" He half-whispered.

My heart thudded in my chest from the surprise. I took a deep breath. "Just...going to get my pillow...and another blanket."

"You're coming back?" He asked, as casual as if he'd asked what time it was or what the weather was supposed to be like tomorrow.

I thought about what he'd told me about his past, about all that had happened that night. Then I imagined him trying to sleep all alone, waking up afraid like he did sometimes on the couch.

"Yeah, of course I am. I'll be right back."

He let go of my wrist.

Once I was in my bedroom grabbing my pillow and the top blanket from my bed, I thought about what was going on. I thought again about my mother, about her reaction when the story of Bucky staying at the house finally got to her.

I figured I just wouldn't tell her this part.

Back in Bucky's room I flopped the pillow down beside his. He moved over a little and I climbed onto the bed, dragging my blanket with me. I wrapped myself in it and cuddled into the bed, my back to him.

He leaned into my warmth when I went still. I blushed in spite of myself.

"Good night Bucky." I whispered.

He grunted.

I had just begun to fall asleep when I felt him move. Suddenly there was an arm around my stomach. He dragged me closer and all at once he was holding me close, his head right behind mine, breath stirring my hair. Even with two blankets between us I could feel his warmth.

It wasn't really a cuddle, or even what you would call an embrace. It was more...like he was shielding me. Hiding me from something, like there was a fierce wind in the room and he had to keep me protected.

"Bucky?" I whispered.

"Mm..."

"Are you awake?"

"Mmmph..."

I smiled, shaking my head a little. I was too tired to argue with a hug. Or whatever this was. Body shield.

"Night, jerk."

"Punk..."


	6. Interlude- Baby We Were Born to Run

Steve's body was absolutely buzzing with the need to go somewhere, to _move_. It'd been what felt like an eternity since Natasha had told him she knew where Bucky was, and then told him to _wait_.

_We don't know what kind of emotional state he's in,_ She'd explained, her gaze solid and paralyzing in its intensity. _We need to do this carefully or you might just lose him again. Maybe forever._

She'd had a point, but even so, if it hadn't been for her and Sam all but pleading with him to stay, to wait for the plans to be sorted, backup to be worked out, he'd have run off to find Bucky himself ages ago.

He wasn't sure if he should be surprised or not about how close Bucky actually was. If it'd been him on the run from something like Hydra, he would have kept going until he simply couldn't move anymore. Of course, maybe Bucky had done that too.

Their final fight together was mostly a blur in Steve's mind, washed out by adrenaline and pain both physical and otherwise, but what he remembered was brutal. He'd had to break Buck's arm to get him to drop the computer piece. That crack and Bucky's scream were two of the only things he could remember about that fight with perfect clarity.

That and Bucky's face when he'd said it. Bruised and bloody and feeling ready to die, Steve had looked up at his best friend and told him, no hint of uncertainty in his voice, the last thing he could think of that might bring him back to himself: _I'm with you 'till the end of the line_.

The look of wide-eyed horror on Bucky's face was the last thing Steve remembered before waking up, impossibly, on the shore.

There was no doubt in his mind that Bucky had saved him. He never would have made it otherwise. Brainwashed, confused, wounded, and Bucky was still looking out for him.

Steve suddenly became aware of Sam's gaze on his face, and the real world came back to him suddenly. Presently he was sitting in Sam's kitchen, waiting for Natasha to show up with the intelligence she'd promised to bring over. The last pieces before they set out.

Sam glanced pointedly at Steve's leg. He was tapping his foot incessantly, unable to keep still. He hadn't slept, barely rested in days. He didn't bother to still himself now, he didn't need or want to hide his need to get going.

Natasha breezed suddenly into the kitchen with no preamble, not even a 'hello'. Steve was grateful, he was sick, almost physically, of waiting.

The file hit the table with a _slap_, and Steve was upon it in a moment, flipping the cover page open and hunching over it.

There was a picture of a house. A shockingly normal looking house. It didn't look like a prison or high-security hideout.

Natasha gently tugged the file out from under Steve's hands and nudged it over a bit on the table so Sam could see it also. "The house is owned by Rhys and Annabelle Warren. But apparently their oldest daughter, Thalia, is living there right now."

She lifted the top page, and the next sheet of paper held another photo. This one was a family, parents with three girls, standing at the railing of a ferry, smiling with the statue of liberty in the background. The taller girl, presumably the older one, was circled with red marker.

Natasha tapped the circle. "This photo is from a couple of years ago. Thalia was in college at the time. Now she's a freelance artist and spends most of her time at home."

Thalia had long dark hair with a slight wave, freckles on her cheeks and across her nose, big brown eyes. She was raising her eyebrows and giving a cheerful grin while her two younger sisters were making faces at the camera.

Why would Bucky be with her?

Natasha went on, flipping through the pages. "Her family _has_ had connections with S.H.I.E.L.D in the past, but nothing on record in the past...thirty-two years."

"How old is she?" Steve asked.

"Twenty-four."

"Then she wouldn't have been involved with that."

"Not likely. And there's no other mention of her family in any file I've gotten my hands on."

Knowing Natasha, that was a broad category. There wasn't much the Black Widow couldn't get her hands on. Steve picked up the picture of the family and stared at it again.

She didn't look like a Hydra agent. Of course Steve supposed looking like an undercover agent sort of defeated the purpose of being one. "Do we have a more recent photo?"

"Nothing so clear. But yes." Natasha pulled a pair of grainy photos from some of the pages lower in the stack.

The first looked like it came from a grocery store surveillance camera. The dark-haired girl was walking along an aisle carrying a hand basket, looking up at something out of the shot. The quality was bad but if he squinted he could see her face, and it was definitely her. The second photo was a little better, outdoors, but from a distance. She was pushing a wheelbarrow on a wooded trail with what looked like firewood piled inside.

"She lives alone?" Steve asked, studying the photos as if he could find out something about her just by staring at the fuzzy image of her face.

"Yes."

"And no current ties to S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"No."

His stomach flipped. "What about Hydra?"

Natasha was quiet for a moment, looking at the photos in his hand. "There's nothing. Absolutely nothing suspicious."

"Which of course is suspicious." Sam mumbled.

"Average grades through school, barely scraped by in college." Natasha went on. "It's not that anyone's hiding her, there just isn't much to find."

Steve frowned.

Sam took the photos from Steve's hand. "Maybe she's just a regular person. Anyone ever think of that?"

Steve sighed. "Because 'regular people' just take in unpredictable strangers?"

Sam looked up at Steve slowly, as if giving him a moment to absorb what had just come out of his mouth.

Steve cleared his throat, looking back at the files. "Well what if she is just a regular person. Why is Bucky there? Why did she let him stay?"

"That's the big question."

"And we can answer it after Bucky's home."

Bucky had hoped that after he'd remembered so much of his past the flashbacks would stop. It was a childish hope that maybe he'd remembered enough, and he wouldn't be forced back into his old life at the most random moments. It seemed he was wrong.

But this flashback was different. There was no screaming. No battles, no gunshots or knives or blood. No snowy ravine.

It wasn't a flashback, he realized suddenly. It was...a memory. He was aware of where he really was, lying in bed, warm and safe, but his mind was drifting elsewhere.

In his memory, hazy as it was, he heard wind rattling thin window panes, felt a draft through poorly insulated walls. He was holding someone, protecting them from the cold.

He didn't remember choosing to put his arms around Thalia. But she was warm and soft and didn't seem to mind.

In his memory the person he held was scrawnier, even with several blankets wrapped around them. Pointy elbows kept jabbing into Bucky's stomach.

It wasn't Thalia in his memory, he knew. This was from a long time ago. Why was he holding that person? He couldn't remember.

Yes he could.

Every breath the person took was accompanied by either a terrible rattling wheeze or a hacking cough.

In the real world Bucky tightened his hold on Thalia like he could stop the noise in his memory.

The person in his memory was sick. Yes, he remembered that. Terribly sick. Always sick. It was too cold. They needed Bucky there, needed his warmth.

Bucky was staring at the wall on the other side of the room, remembering. He'd spent so much time with that sick little person. Who was it? Did they survive?

Thalia stirred slightly in her sleep, pulling him back to the present. He lifted his head to look at her face. At some point in the night she'd turned to face him, and presently her head was resting against his chest. She looked so peaceful, face expressionless save for the occasional slight movement of her mouth or eyelids while she dreamed.

It was strange. Bucky couldn't understand why Thalia had allowed him to stay with her, or why she was so patient and careful with him. There was no logical reason for her to have fed him, to put up with his issues and oddities, to talk so nicely to him or to take care of him. Especially that night, during that nightmare and subsequent panic.

He sighed and rested his head back on the pillow. Whatever reason she had within herself for being the way she was, he was grateful for it. Even with that big question of 'why', she was really the only part of his life at the moment that made any sense, that felt at all stable. There was nothing to remember about her because he'd never known her. No guilt. No pain. Just friendship and smiles and her gentle voice when he got upset.

He closed his eyes, feeling his body relaxing again, and must have dozed off because the next time he opened his eyes the sun was starting to rise just a bit in the window.

Thalia was pulling away from him. Reflexively he pulled her back and she grumbled sleepily.

"I need to go to the bathroom." She grunted, her voice raspy from sleep.

He let her go, sighing to himself when the chill hit him in her absence.

After she stumbled clumsily out of the room he listened to her walk down the hall.

In her absence his mind wandered to the past again. He couldn't put a face on that sickly, pitiful figure, all bony elbows and weak lungs and burning with fever in some versions of the memory. It seemed like an important person. He frowned at the ceiling.

Thalia returned, smelling faintly of soap, and crawled back into bed, wrapping up in her blanket and tucking herself against him again.

Bucky yawned, stretching before resting his right arm over her again. Maybe tomorrow he'd tell her about the memory. She'd be happy he was remembering things other than the terrible stuff. He smiled at that, and eventually fell asleep to the gentle rhythm of Thalia's soft snores.


	7. C5- Be Careful Making Wishes in the Dark

It turned out that Bucky's pronouncement that he'd remembered 'everything' was a little grand on his part. He _had_ remembered a lot related to his time as The Winter Soldier, but not much of his life before the war, or really during it, either. And what he remembered of The Winter Soldier was still patchy, his memories brief flashes or impressions.

I considered showing him the articles online about himself, about James Buchanan Barnes, about Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. But during breakfast he quietly, almost lazily, told me about a slight memory he'd had the night before, when I was sleeping.

His face when he was talking was what convinced me not to show him the articles. He would switch from calm thoughtfulness to a look of pain, like his head hurt, or like something was jabbing him. He kept talking though. Every time he tried to push himself to remember, he'd get that look on his face.

Showing him the articles would give him the facts, but not the memories. I would be rubbing salt in the wound, holding out my phone and saying 'look at everything you've forgotten'. If just that simple memory from last night was causing him pain, how could I show him the bare bones of much larger memories and expect him to handle it?

So I ate quietly, listened to him talk, and smiled whenever he did. He was so proud of himself for remembering.

He seemed far more cheerful today than I would have expected someone who'd had a night like his would be. I had expected today to be one of his bad days, where he sat in silence and stared off into nowhere. But the most shocking development had occurred earlier. He'd been sitting at the dining room table, and I'd come in with his plate. Not thinking anything of it, I'd forgotten one of the 'Bucky rules' and touched his shoulder before letting him know I was there, to lean forward and put the plate in front of him.

_And he hadn't reacted_. No jump, no shoving me away or nearly breaking my arm. Nothing. In fact it was only a few minutes later that I even realized what I'd done. And when he'd told me about his dream I realized why.

That dream was giving him a memory of touch that wasn't painful. What he'd told me last night about his handlers, what he was subjected to, how he'd been hurt, it all made his aversion to touch make sense. But now he could remember, if only vaguely, a time when touch hadn't hurt him. A time where he'd wanted to hold on to another person and where the fear was in the _absence_ of contact, rather than the opposite.

"Are you okay?" He asked suddenly.

"Huh?" I blinked a few times, refocusing on his face.

He'd finished his breakfast and was leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table. There was a concerned expression on his face as he studied me. "You were staring."

"Was I?" I rubbed both eyes, both still burning with tiredness. My worry for him had left me with more exhaustion than the few hours I'd slept last night could take care of.

"You tired?"

"Yeah, kinda." I mimicked his pose, leaning forward with my arms on the table.

"Want me to do the dishes?"

"I won't stop you." I smiled.

He smiled and shook his head, standing up. I nudged my plate towards him and he took it, piling it on top of his, then adding both our glasses and the silverware to the pile. He turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

I shook my head as he walked away. No matter how hard I tried I couldn't find a coherent pattern to his behavior. I sighed and leaned back in my chair for a moment before wandering into the kitchen behind him.

He was busy at the sink with the dishes, and glanced over his shoulder at me when I came in but didn't say anything.

I wandered over and leaned against the counter to his right, not touching him but close enough I could feel his warmth. "Do you want anything special when I go grocery shopping?"

He shrugged. "If it's edible I'll eat it. I'm not picky."

I grunted, then an idea struck me. "What about clothes?"

He glanced sidelong at me. "Clothes are not edible, Thalia."

I slapped his arm and he laughed, flicking water at me in retaliation.

"I _mean_ what kind of clothes do you like?" I laughed, using my sleeve to wipe water off my face. "While I'm gonna be out I was thinking of getting you some clothes that actually fit." I tugged on the too-tight sleeve of his, or really my Dad's, t-shirt.

"I don't know." He said with another shrug. "Clothes. Nothing with really bright colors."

"No bright colors. Got it. Anything else?"

"Warm stuff."

"Okay, will do." I pushed away from the counter. "Are you gonna be okay, being here alone?"

It felt like an odd question to ask a grown man, but with Bucky it was a toss-up.

He shrugged. "I can work the TV, and you're bringing home food. I think I can manage."

"Sure you won't miss me too much?"

That got a short laugh out of him. "I'll be fine, Steve, go ahead."

I frowned. _What?_ "What did you say?"

He glanced at me with a grin. "I said I'd be fine."

"Why did you call me Steve?"

His smile fell. "What?"

"You called me Steve."

"No I didn't."

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could he winced again, that pained 'remembering but not' expression flashing across his face. He shook his head quickly and then turned back to the dishes silently, scrubbing at a plate more aggressively than was necessary. I closed my mouth.

"I'm gonna get ready to go."

"Okay."

The whole time I was getting dressed and getting ready to leave I debated with myself. It was obvious that I had to go get food, but I didn't like the idea of leaving Bucky alone, even if he seemed to be okay today outside of that little lapse. But he'd never actually called me by another name before. Normally if he was having a flashback he was totally removed from the real world, he'd never combined them like that. Never spoken to me out of the past.

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, pulling my hair back. I looked tired, frowning at myself, worrying. Hopefully I wouldn't run into anyone I knew at the store.

When I went downstairs, Bucky had turned on the TV and was settled in front of it watching an episode of Arrested Development. He glanced at me when I poked my head into the living room.

"You said it was okay to watch this without you, right?"

I had to smile at his concerned little frown.

"Yeah it's fine. Did you get to the episode with the escaped sea lion yet?"

His eyes widened. "What? No."

I laughed. "Well enjoy. I'll be back in like an hour, okay?"

He grunted and turned back to the TV.

I'd never liked grocery shopping even when it was just for me. Walking around the store trying to figure out what one should buy to feed a traumatized ex-assassin made it even less fun. I decided he needed things that were filling but healthy. Lots of protein, probably.

It didn't take long to burn through most of what I earned from my last commissions. But after an hour and a half, some Googling on my phone, and way too many laps around the store, I was somewhat satisfied with the cart of food I brought to the register. I was much less satisfied with how much it cost to feed the both of us.

I hauled the groceries to the car, brought the cart back, and nearly had a heart attack when my phone started ringing.

My first thought was Bucky, but I'd barely seen him even look at the phone, much less use it. Besides he didn't even know my cell number...which I should have left with him, I realized with a frown.

"Hello?"

"Hey honey, it's me."

I relaxed at my Mom's familiar voice. "Hey Mom. What's up?" Grocery bags tucked away, I slammed the trunk closed.

"You tell me."

My stomach flipped at the serious tone in her voice. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm _still_ getting your mail down here. I thought you said you were going to take care of that."

I could have collapsed right there on the pavement in the parking lot. I was getting _way_ to tense about things. "Yeah I will. I guess I just forgot. Did you really need to call me just for that? I told you I'd call you when I got home from grocery shopping."

"Where are you now?"

"Grocery shopping." I opened the car's driver's side door and got in. "I'll be home in like twenty minutes."

"Okay, call me when you get home."

I rolled my eyes. "Will do, Mom. Bye."

I dropped my cell phone in the cup holder in the middle console between the front seats, shaking my head, and pulled the door shut. Before I started the car, though, I paused and grabbed my phone again. Dialing my house, I waited for the answering machine. I knew Bucky wouldn't answer the phone, but that was fine, he didn't need to.

After a few rings the call went to the machine, still spouting a group message involving the whole family; I hadn't bothered to change it when I moved in. I waited for the beep.

"Hi Buck, I'm on my way home, okay? I'm gonna stop and pick up a pizza for lunch. There's this place nearby that makes the best you've ever had. You're gonna love it, I promise." I paused, aware I was treating him like a dog, cooped up in the house while it's owners were at work. "Just give me like a half hour, okay? See you soon."

Finished, I hung up and put my phone back in my cup holder.

I felt a little better and couldn't explain to myself why. He hadn't answered the phone, I hadn't talked to him. But somehow just imagining him turning his head slightly away from the TV to listen to my message, smiling at the promise of something special for lunch, was enough for me to relax.

Maybe he'd called me Steve because he was remembering. Remembering Steve Rogers. He was remembering having a friend and how good that felt and the name just slipped out. There would be no breakdown or flashback today.

He would be fine. Everything was going to be okay.

It's really hard to be anything but optimistic when your car smells like fresh pizza.

I wasn't sure what toppings Bucky liked, and so I'd gone with a basic pepperoni. Large, to accommodate his massive appetite. It sat in the passenger seat, and I kept giving it little worried glances like it was a baby or something.

That place makes great pizza, okay?

I turned the radio up for one of my favorite songs and didn't bother to turn it down again afterwards. I sang along to the music and smiled to myself, wondering what kind of music Bucky would like. I hadn't really asked him what he wanted to listen to when I played music. He seemed baffled by the radio, in fact. Like it was spouting alien war propaganda and demanding sacrifice instead of simple pop music.

_Better not show him Welcome to Nightvale_. I thought with a grin.

Once I got near my house the ride consisted of long winding back roads, changing to dirt for a mile or two before I finally turned up my driveway.

The driveway was long and shrouded in the same dense woodland that hid my house from view. It wasn't unusual to see a deer or other animal alongside or darting across.

The dirt and gravel of the drive growled under my tires. Bucky would hear me coming from a mile away.

_I should have asked him to set the table. Oh well._

There's one long bend in the driveway before you approach the house. I was humming along with the music on the radio as I drove around the bend.

My heart dropped into my stomach so quickly I felt dizzy.

Three matte black SUVs were parked in my driveway, way up close to the house. There was a van too, with blacked-out windows, parked alongside the others. A handful of men who looked like policemen where milling about the cars. Two of them were watching me approach.

My father had taught me when I was a kid, when we would be up here taking walks and hikes in the surrounding mountains, had repeated so many times it was like a mantra, 'trust your instincts'.

My instincts were telling me to turn the car around and get away from here.

I turned down the radio, trying to ignore my heart beating wildly enough to make me shaky. I wanted to back the car all the way down the driveway and just drive away. But Bucky was in the house and he was possibly in danger. I couldn't leave him.

I pulled my car up behind the black SUVs and put it in park. One of the two men watching me approach was walking towards me before I even stopped completely.

_Stay in the car. Don't get out._

I shut off the car and got out.

"Can I help you?" I asked before the man could say anything. He was tall, strongly built and muscular, with short dark hair and dark eyes. He was wearing what looked like a bulletproof vest, had a gun in a holster on each hip, and what I was willing to bet were a few knives alongside them.

He came too close for comfort and I stepped back against my car. He stopped about a foot away from me; he probably was trying to smile but his face clearly wasn't used to such a thing. What came out was more of a strange sneer.

"Are you Thalia Warren?" He asked, curt and forceful like someone shoving you face-first against concrete.

"Who wants to know?" I asked, crossing my arms to mimic his posture.

"Don't try to be smart. You have something that belongs to us, we're just here to get it back, no need for games."

"I don't know what you mean." I responded. I was trying very hard to keep my voice and breathing even, keep my eyes fixed on his.

He actually smiled this time, shaking his head. "So it's gonna be like that, huh? You're really going to pretend you have no idea why we're here."

"I'm not _pretending_ anything."

There was a pause, but I wouldn't describe it as a silence. In the few moments we'd been talking the tension level in the air had skyrocketed and now it was like there was lightning shooting between us. I knew he was there for Bucky and he knew I knew it. But neither of us would back down.

I expected him to threaten me, to tell me it was best to cooperate, to do something tricky to try and get me to admit something.

What I _wasn't_ expecting was for him to grab me by my jacket, haul me towards the back of the van, lift me up, slam me against it, and hold me there with his forearm pressed to my throat and his fist clutching the front of my jacket.

I struggled in his grip but he shoved his arm harder against my throat, right in the spot where my jaw met my neck, so it was almost impossible for me to breathe. I stopped kicking and he let up a tiny bit.

"I said no games." He hissed, eyes boring into mine like he could see straight into my brain. "This'll be a whole lot easier if you don't try to be a hero."

I couldn't respond with his arm all but strangling me, or at least not coherently. I made an angry coughing sound.

"I'm gonna ask you some questions, and if you answer 'em right, you get to live, okay?"

I nodded.

He raised his eyebrows and spoke like he was chastising a child. "You're not going to play any games with me now, are you?"

I shook my head, hoping my eyes could convey the anger I was feeling at the moment.

He smiled and moved his arm from my neck so I could drop back onto the ground. He still held me by my jacket, and the moment my feet hit the ground he shoved me back against the van. My head whacked against the black metal, hitting the sore spot where I'd hit the wall last night.

"Where is The Asset?"

_The Asset? Bucky._

I glared at him. "I don't know."

That wasn't a lie. I had no idea where Bucky was. Was he in the house, hiding? Had he realized who these people were and run off?

Mr. Friendly pulled me away from the van and slammed me back against it again. "Who do you work for?"

I squirmed a little against the van. My head hurt where I'd hit it for the second time in only a few moments. "I don't work for anyone."

He slammed me against the van hard enough for it to wobble slightly on its shocks. I felt a little dizzy. "Are you a Shield agent? Why aren't you in the system?"

"I don't know what you're talking ab-"

_Wham_. Head striking against the van again, I let out an involuntary squeak that was probably not very intimidating.

"You're giving me wrong answers here, sweetheart. You better start getting them right, and right now, or I might have to get a little messy."

Whether I told him what he wanted or not, I knew there was no way he'd let me go. Whoever these people were, they weren't nice, they weren't fair, and they weren't going to leave any witnesses.

The good thing was they didn't have Bucky. If they did there would be no reason for this little chat between me and Mr. Friendly. If anything I could give Bucky time to get away.

Before my friend could ask me any more questions, the man who'd been beside him when I drove up came around the van.

"Perimeter secure, sir. No sign of The Asset."

My interrogator didn't take his eyes off my face. "Search the house."

"Hey wait you can't-"

_Wham_.

I closed my eyes against the sharp jolt of pain in my head. I heard the other man walk away, and moments later I heard a sharp _crack_ of the front door being kicked in. When I opened my eyes Mr. Friendly was smiling in a disturbingly predatory way.

"I don't know where he is." I told him. "That's the truth."

"Okay."

He pulled me away from the van and hauled me to one side of it so I could see the front door. He pulled me backwards so my back was against his stomach, his breath blowing down on my head. His left arm wrapped around my stomach, holding my arms down and securing me against him.

Through the broken front door and the windows I could see men swarming through my house. I heard things being knocked over and thrown on the floor while they searched, like Bucky would be hiding in a drawer or under a rug.

Something hard and cold pressed against the right side of my head.

"Okay darling, I don't want to get blood on my new shirt, so you'd best start talking _right now_."

My heart was beating so fast I could barely distinguish between individual beats. White-hot fear seared my body from the inside out. I knew the man holding me could feel me shaking. He knew I was terrified. I heard him chuckle.

"Honey I've got a timetable here." The gun clacked loudly like in the movies. I felt him lean forward a bit. I leaned my head forward a little in response. "So if you'd be so kind as to-"

I jerked my head back as fast and hard as I could and was rewarded by his cry of surprise and pain. His grip slacked for just a moment and I twisted away.

Before I could run another set of arms wrapped around me and I cried out with frustration and anger, kicking and twisting.

Mr. Friendly recovered quickly and grabbed me away from my second captor by my jacket again. He hauled me forwards, dragging me back towards the van. I tripped on the grass and fell. He yanked me back to my feet, spun me around, and wrapped me in his firm grip again.

I'd gotten a brief glimpse of his face in the struggle. It was nearly expressionless, but there was blood dripping from his nose and staining his shirt. When he held me firmly again, back against his chest, I could smell the harsh metallic scent of his blood and felt more than a little proud of myself. He might shoot me, but at least I'd hurt him.

I didn't know what had happened to his gun but now he had both hands free, his left arm wrapped around me like before, holding me immobile, his right hand on my chin, directing my face to look at the house.

"Oh you think you're _real_ cute, don't you? Well you're just a little-"

"Both floors clear, sir." A voice crackled over the radio he had clipped to his belt.

"I told you I don't know where he is." I spat, struggling to speak against the grip he had on my jaw.

Suddenly his right hand released my face. He grabbed his radio from his belt.

"Clear both floors. Everyone out." He clipped it back in its place and grabbed my face again, pushing my head up so he could speak right into my ear. "Think you're so clever, hiding him from us. You're not clever at all, you're very _very_ stupid."

The men who'd charged into my house before now swooped out like bats from a cave, clearing the house in a matter of moments. Mr. Friendly turned, taking me with him, to face the man who'd reported to him before, and who I realized now was the pair of arms that had stopped my escape.

"Light it up."

The man nodded and gestured to someone nearby.

"Think you can hide him from us, huh?" Mr. Friendly snorted in my ear again. He was walking backwards, dragging me with him. His pace was too fast and I couldn't keep up, forcing me to lean against him and trust him to support me.

"I'm not hiding anyth-"

There was a deep thump, a wave of heat. The windows in my house blew out, scattering glass across the porch and front lawn. The whole structure shook, the porch groaned and slumped onto the front lawn. Fire engulfed the entire inside of the house.

I screamed. No words, just screamed.

The gun was against my head again.

"I'm gonna give you to the count of three to start talking. One..."

I struggled in his grip. His arm tightened around me and the gun pressed painfully against my right temple.

"Two..."

I screamed again, this time in frustration. My house cracked and popped like a campfire.

"Th-"

Suddenly I was thrown to the ground, my head spinning. Was that how it felt to be shot? Was I dying?

Men were yelling. The group that had been calmly watching my house explode and burn down were running everywhere, pointing their guns.

Nope, not dead yet.

I was on my stomach on the ground. Someone grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me up, then practically threw me at the woods.

"Run!"

This voice was harsh as well, but familiar. This was a voice I could obey without any thought at all. I sprinted for the woods.

I almost expected someone to stop me but I seemed to be forgotten. I heard gunshots but they weren't aimed at me. Someone actually ran past me to get back to where I'd been moments ago.

I broke the treeline and dashed through the dry leaves, clothes catching on twigs, nearly tripping on bushes, until I found a deer trail and was able to run on the narrow, clear ground.

I ran until I couldn't see the house when I looked over my shoulder. It was only then that it really sank in. Bucky was there. He was safe. He had just saved my life. I kept running.

When the voices were faint I stopped and turned around to look. I couldn't hear gunshots but people were yelling. Was Bucky safe? The men had been wearing bulletproof vests, but he didn't have one. Was he dead?

I cursed under my breath and started running back towards the house. I'd been so stupid, so selfish. I'd gotten in this mess because I'd refused to leave Bucky behind and now I was just going to run away on foot instead? Even if I couldn't help much I had to do what I could, had to-

Something crashed into me, something big and heavy and moving very fast. It knocked me into the bushes beside the trail and I sat there for a moment, winded.

And there was Bucky, standing on the path, eyes wide, hair wild, staring at me like I'd just stepped out of a nightmare.

"What are you doing?" He gasped.

"Are you o-"

Before I could get the question out he grabbed my arm, pulled me up, and shoved me forward. "Go! Run! _Run!_"

I obeyed instantly and sprinted deeper into the woods, Bucky passing me to run ahead. I could hear shouting behind us and glanced back to see dark shapes crashing through the undergrowth behind us.

When I looked forward again Bucky was gone, run too far ahead for me to see, and a terrible thought struck me.

_Does Bucky know I can't run as fast as he can?_

Did he know how much more than a normal human he was? Would he keep running thinking I was on his heels?

I pushed myself, pouring every ounce of speed I could muster into my legs to try and keep up with Bucky but he was nowhere in sight. The men behind me were gaining. My breath tore at my chest like knives, my legs burned. I forced myself to go faster.

I crested a hill and suddenly Bucky was just there, standing beside the path, semi-crouching in the bushes. I passed him and turned to look back. Three of the men who'd stood on my yard, who'd searched my house, came tearing over the hill after me.

Bucky swung his metal arm and struck two of them in the head and neck. They went down like rocks, dropping their weapons as they fell. The third skidded to a stop to look back and in that moment Bucky lifted his right arm, gun in hand.

The three men taken care of he started running again, passing me on the path and turning to glare back at me. "Don't stop, don't look back, _run_."

We were far enough ahead of the men now that they didn't come up behind us. They were most likely searching the woods now, trying to find our trail. We kept running.

Bucky seemed very well aware that I was slower than him. He would run ahead until I thought I'd lost him, then he would stop and wait for me to catch up. Every time I found him he was on a hill, or he'd climbed into the lower branches of a tree. He was watching for me, making sure I was still coming, watching for our attackers.

It felt like we'd been running for hours when I caught up to him beneath a massive pine tree. He turned to start running again but I grabbed his arm. He tensed and looked back at me impatiently.

"Are you hurt?"

"I can't...can't run anymore." I gasped. My chest ached, my head spun and throbbed, my legs felt like jelly, like they weren't mine or attached to me in any way, and my stomach churned like I might throw up at any second. I had no more push, no energy left to burn.

He turned to really face me, looking concerned, grabbing my arm. "Thalia?"

I stumbled and barely stopped myself from falling. He grabbed my other arm as well, holding me up.

"We can't stop here, Thal, it's too open."

I nodded, breath rasping. "Just...need a second..."

We stood in silence for a moment, his hands on my upper arms, firm and supportive. Birds chirped in the treetops like nothing odd was going on, like we weren't in mortal peril, and if I closed my eyes I could almost pretend we were just out on a hike. Almost.

"C'mere." He pulled me away from the path and under the pine tree's lowest branches.

The day had turned cloudy, the woods dim and gray. Under the pine tree it was shadowed and dark.

Bucky steered me into the branches, leaning me against the tree trunk, moving my hands so I would use the branches to hold myself up.

He leaned close, his voice almost a whisper. "Stay here. Pull up your feet if anyone comes by. Stay quiet. I'm going to find somewhere we can rest."

I nodded, my entire body shaking from the exertion and leftover fear.

He nodded and ducked out of the tree's shelter.

I barely heard him move but I knew he was gone. I felt pathetic, weak. He hardly seemed bothered by our running. Probably because he got to rest for a couple minutes after each sprint, because I was too slow. If it weren't for me he'd be miles away from those men.

A bird fluttered way up high in the pine tree and I glanced up, breath slowly evening out a bit.

The bird sang cheerfully into the sky. Somewhere, a woodpecker tapped against a tree.

If the birds were singing, then they weren't frightened. They weren't frightened because no one was crashing about in the forest below them. Bucky moved like a breath, barely disturbing anything. I moved a little less elegantly but well enough not to startle the birds high above me. But the men who'd been chasing us were loud and violent, crashing and making a horrible noise. If they were near, the birds would stop singing.

I took a deep breath to try to even out my breathing. It wasn't a flawless theory, but it helped me feel a little less afraid for a few moments and that was something. I leaned my head back against the tree and closed my eyes.

There was a soft rustling nearby and I was startled back to full alertness, but then Bucky slipped back under the tree's shelter and I relaxed.

"I found an place near here we can rest. C'mon."

He took my arm and led me maybe a quarter of a mile away. We came to a rocky place in the hollow between two hills, where two ancient, moss-covered boulders leaned against each other and formed a little lopsided tent-shaped cave.

He nudged me forward and I went inside. The cave was maybe six feet deep, ending against a rock that was otherwise hidden beneath the hill over us. The ground was rocky and slightly slanted, rising slowly on the right-hand side.

I turned to look out of the cave and saw him pulling a couple of leaf-filled branches across the entrance, concealing it as he came inside.

I sat down against the back of the cave, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

Bucky sat down also, his back against the straighter of the cave walls, staring at the entrance with an appraising look.

We sat like that for a long time while I slowly started to get my breath back enough to really speak.

After a while he moved, reaching to grab something at his side, and then suddenly there was a gun between us. I recognized it instantly as one of the two handguns that had been in the gun safe back at the house. I assumed he had the other.

I looked down at it for a while, then looked back up at him. His eyes were dark, cold, not like the Bucky I'd come to know at all.

"Buck..."

"You're probably going to need that."

"I don't have anywhere to keep it."

"Just hold it. It doesn't matter. Just keep it with you."

He relaxed a little bit when I reluctantly picked it up. I set it in my lap and just stared at it, unable to believe what was happening, replaying the past couple of hours in my head, from the moment I'd driven up the driveway to now, hiding in the woods miles away.

"How did you get the safe open?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Wasn't hard."

I waited for him to elaborate but wasn't surprised when he didn't.

"Are those the men who-"

"Some of them."

I nodded silently, feeling even sicker than before. If it was really the men who'd kept him captive for so long, who'd used him like a machine...they wouldn't stop until they had him back.

"Thalia, if they catch up to us, if they catch you..."

I looked up at Bucky when his voice trailed off. He was staring dismally at the entrance of the cave, mouth open slightly.

"They won't." I assured him with more confidence than I actually felt. I was fairly certain they _would_ find us eventually, if we didn't keep moving.

"If they do."

I went silent, waiting for him to go on.

He turned to look me straight in the face, face expressionless, eyes cold. "If they catch you, they won't...they know you're with me, that you're helping me. They'll want..." He shook his head helplessly. "They...won't let you die."

Those words were so simple, and in any other context might have been reassuring. But right now, half-whispered in the cold silence of our hiding place, they stabbed straight into my heart and made it miss a few beats. I swallowed.

"If they catch you, don't let them...don't let them take you, okay?"

I looked away from his face, unable to take the cold emptiness there. "Bucky..."

"Promise me." He said, and though his voice didn't get any louder a fiery intensity burned through the words.

I had one hand resting on the gun in my lap. At his words my fingers tightened around it.

"Don't let them take you Thalia, please. If you...if it was my fault they had you..."

"Let's not-"

Bucky's hand grabbed mine and pressed my fingers more tightly around the cold metal of the gun. "_Promise me_."

A lump formed in my throat at the thought of what he was asking me to promise him. I was certain I'd never have the guts to do it if it came down to it, but he wouldn't stop until I said I would. "I promise."

He let go of my hand and sat back again, looking no more relaxed but less intense. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." His voice was flat, not like he didn't mean it but like he was reciting facts.

"No Bucky, it's not." I scooted closer to him, looping my left arm around his right. "It's no one's fault. These people kidnapped you. It wasn't your choice. You got away. You should be proud. You'll get away again. Everything's gonna be fine."

He let out a short little laugh with no actual happiness in it. "You actually believe that?"

I didn't. Not really. But I had to. I had to believe we would make it, that we were strong enough.

I rested my head on his shoulder, and he rested his head against mine. "Yeah. I do. And I think you do too."

"Mm." He grunted. "You should rest while you can. I'll keep an eye out."

I shouldn't have been able to, but I relaxed against his arm. My whole body felt like lead, arms and legs buzzing with spent energy. The air was chilly and getting colder as the sun went down outside but I couldn't muster the energy to shiver.

I listened to the birds outside and to Bucky's slow, steady breathing. Slowly the two combined lulled me into something like sleep.

Though I managed to fall asleep it was fitful and I woke a few hours later with a start.

Bucky didn't notice I'd woken and jumped slightly when I moved to sit up. He took a long, deep breath like he'd been sleeping also.

It was dark, crickets singing loudly outside. It was colder than it had been when we first settled, something my body seemed to realize all at once. I shivered, rubbing my arms to try and warm up.

Bucky leaned towards the cave entrance, listening. The moonlight outside reflected into the cave and traced his profile while he crouched at the door. After a few long moments he seemed to relax. "We should keep going."

I nodded. The cave was cold, the stone walls seeming to leech every bit of warmth from the space. Besides that, now that I had some energy back, I didn't want to stay still any longer.

"I'll go out first, make sure it's safe." He whispered.

I nodded again.

He moved so slowly he barely seemed to be moving at all, lifting the branches covering the entrance. He froze, listening, then moved them a little more.

It must have taken ten minutes for him to move the branches enough for us to get out, but at least it was quiet. He slipped out like a cat and faded into the darkness outside.

I waited, sitting as still as I could, shivering, listening.

His face reappeared at the door. "Okay, c'mon."

I got to my knees and clumsily crawled out of the cave, straightening up outside. The forest looked totally different at night. It was dark under the tree cover, but the sky had cleared and the moonlight filtered down in shafts between the leaves. It gave the forest a strange, almost underwater appearance. It also left much to the imagination, and my heart raced at every shadow.

Bucky stood stone-still in the leaf-filled hollow, looking around, listening. After a while he seemed to make a decision. "This way." He whispered, and started walking into the woods.

The direction seemed totally random to me, but I trusted his sense of direction and followed closely.

I wondered, following him through the dark forest, what, if any, destination he had in mind. I had no idea where we might go to be safe from people like this. How long would we have to walk? How far would we have to go? Bucky had run all the way to me and they'd found him. I had a dismal, creeping suspicion that they would continue to hunt Bucky until they caught him, until they killed him, or until he killed all of them.

I shivered, pulled my coat closer, and tried to walk quietly.


End file.
